


Chase You Down

by Jonezy



Category: The Fall (TV)
Genre: F/F, Merry Christmas, That's right kids, You are the OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:33:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 35,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonezy/pseuds/Jonezy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's not just looking in your direction, she's looking straight at you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shivers that you give me keep me freezing all night

**Author's Note:**

> Iya...  
> This is a bit nervy innit? *Wipes palms*  
> This is my first ever fan fiction, my first time here... The lot. Be firm but gentle. Think Stella on a good day.  
> This is also going to be longer, because I can't stop and I can't be tamed.
> 
> Basically: Stella Gibson is after you. Buckle up kids, it's gonna be one hell of a ride.

The first time you set eyes on each other, it's a chilly Northern Irish, miserable, overcast Wednesday. You're with your so called, 'boss', and he's chattering on about the evidence and how close they are to "getting the bastard" and you nod and you reply your "that's great Sir"s, but out the corner of your eye you're monitoring the long, white trench coat getting closer and closer. You've heard the stories. You've seen the pictures. You've even seen the neat, looping italic scribble jotted in the margins of some of the paperwork. But you've not set eyes on the figure behind it. Until now.

A posse of officers follow her – probably thanks to the intrusion of her room – but she's striding well ahead of them, gliding closer and closer. Your boss doesn't notice until she's almost upon him and you turn round and she's there and she's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. She clears her throat and your boss pirouettes round, ducking under the police tape, shaking dirt off of his hands.

"DS Tom Anderson Ma'am, great to meet you!"

She shakes his hand with missing enthusiasm and smiles. And then she turns and then calculating, grey eyes are flicking over you, meeting yours with a sense of interest you hadn't previously seen. "Likewise. Who's this?"

"Ah that's my PC, ma'am. More of an aide than anything. She'll be accompanying us round."

"I have one of those. They're great fun."

He laughs, nervously but she's not even smiling. Instead, she's extending a long hand and it's searching for yours. "Stella" She curls, every syllable parachuting gently into the sodden marshland. "Gibson. And you are?"

You recite your title with none of the control that she has, and with a tremor in your wrist you grasp her comfortably warm hand in your cold, enveloping one. The contact sparks a jolt of electricity through you and you know that she feels it too by the way a light flickers behind her eyes. You stay in the embrace for a little longer, before long, sleek fingers are gently moving away from yours, caressing each and every inch of skin as they go.

You clear your throat and she smiles. Then, in a blur of blonde hair she turns and ducks under the police line, following Anderson who has started reciting his previous spiel. You stand, frozen in the moment watching her go. There's nobody around you, the posse of security are now hurrying to catch up with her and so you allow yourself a moment to track her, to let your eyes drink her in like she's the finest, most expensive wine you can find.

All of a sudden there's a glint, light reflecting off of strands of gold and you realise she's turned her head and is looking over her shoulder in your direction. It takes your infatuated brain longer than it should to realise that she's not just looking in your direction, she's looking straight at you.

 

* * *

The next time you see her, it's a heavily rain soaked Tuesday night and you're tasked with the job of dropping paperwork into her evidence room. It's gone ten o'clock at night and you shake your coat and hair out in the reception, the receptionist smiling and ushering you up.

You take the lift and it's not until you're halfway up to her floor that you realise your heart has started beating a little harder and faster than before and that your stomach is turning, as it would do if you were standing, looking down at the world from three skyscrapers up. You ignore it, play it down, tell yourself to stop being so bloody stupid. She probably won't even be here, it's late. She's probably got _her_ aide to do the boring night stuff for her.

The lift pings and the doors slink open and your feet start the automatic task of carrying your body along the glass paned corridor when your heart stops. Through the window you catch the sight of long blonde hair resting on relaxed shoulders, a head rolled backwards, resting, eyes half lidded and your overactive imagination changes the setting so fast that you can't breathe.

It's your room and her heads thrown back and her hairs on your pillow and she's not in that see through baby blue blouse, she's not even in her bra, her eyes are rolling back and your hands are gripping both her shoulders and it's your mouth travelling down her neck, it's your lips tasting her skin, it's your senses getting drunk off expensive, lavender and lily perfume and there's a moan stemming from her lips and suddenly, there's a loud click and your hands have found the door and somehow you've opened it and the actual setting, where you actually are swims back into view and you have to blink because you suddenly feel a bit nauseous.

But she's noticed you and she's languidly propped an eye open, the other quickly following suit as you encroach on more of her territory. She sits up, shoulders snapping back into place, eyes glinting with curiosity.

"Sorry it's late ma'am" You find yourself saying, autopilot mode well and truly on. "DS Anderson has paperwork for you."

You hand her the folder but you notice her gaze remains well and truly locked on your hands as you do the exchange.

"How exciting." Deadpan, flat, lack of significant humour. She's probably shattered. You better go.

"I'll leave you to get some sleep." You say and you make your way toward the door but the dripping honey of her voice halts you in your tracks.

"If only I was sleeping."

You turn back around, ready to offer a sympathetic shoulder, empathy already scratched deep into your features when you notice her eyes are alight with something far from deprecation, but something youthful.

"I think I need to find something to knock me out."

She raises her eyebrows and the youthfulness is joined by a playful, teasing look. You have to physically sink your teeth into your bottom lip to keep you from responding something childish, cliché, corny, like " _I can_ _help you with that_ _, if you like_ ". She's still looking at you, a small smile curled into the left hand side of her features and it's almost as if she's lurched forward, bent over ( _God_ ) and lain down a mine field right in front of you, waiting for you to make the wrong move and be blown up in the first step, waiting for you to prove you're unworthy.

So you don't. You straighten up your shoulders and you drop your voice an octave, your words coming out slow, chosen, controlled. "I think you probably do ma'am."

Her face gives away a glimmer of surprise and she's allowing her smile to completely overthrow her lips now. "What works for you?"

You don't know how on earth you're saying it, but you hear yourself reply "I find something hot... A bath... A good book... A whisky. Sometimes none of the above."

"None of the above?” She questions, eyebrow well and truly raised.

“If I told you that I'd have to kill you... And we've already got enough death on our hands.”

She laughs with genuine enjoyment and it goes straight to your frayed nerves that had panicked that was too far.

“Goodnight ma'am... I hope my advice works."

You smile at her, toothy and full faced. She meets your eyes and she's recognised your challenge and as you reach the door you hear her very soft, "goodnight" echo through the walls.

 

* * *

 

You don't see her next until you're running late for her eight am briefing and you're cursing your shower and your life with every out of breath step because of course the lift would be broken today as well, and of course her floor is the sixth. You haven't seen her to talk to since that late Tuesday a week ago. You've seen her on location, you've seen her talking to Anderson, you've made notes in their meetings and you've noticed she's not been paying you much attention. You don't know what to make of that. You're not sure whether or not you overstepped some invisible boundary and did indeed blow yourself up in the first step.

You ignore those thoughts as you burst in and she pauses, midway through a sentence, amusement briefly lighting up withdrawn eyes. Everyone in the room is looking at you. Including DS Anderson. "And where were you this morning?"

"Sorry Sir, my shower broke. I had to wait for a bloke to come and fix it." Then you notice she's watching you like a hawk and you can feel her gaze creeping up your neck and so you do something really brave. Or really stupid. "I prefer mine hot, steamy, like a sauna. Not baron and freezing like an Arctic plain."

Out of the corner of your eye you see her eyes widen in interest and her brows lift and drop. Something quickly washes over her face but it's gone by the time Anderson has opened his mouth.

"Have you not moved into the hotel yet?"

"What hotel?" Her voice slinks into the conversation.

"Oh, yours ma'am. I felt it was a better idea for her to be in the same corridor as you, what with the police protection."

She flicks her eyes away from Anderson and they fixate on you, drilling into every one of your nerves. "That's a good idea. Consider it. Take a seat."

 

As eight am briefings go, it's not too painful. As everyone is packing up, Anderson signals "five minutes" at you and runs off after Burns, waving a piece of paper as he goes. You take a minute to breathe, running hands through your hair and slumping backward in the seat. And then something puts you straight back on edge. A voice, dripping like melting candle wax.

"You should seriously consider the hotel idea. These are worrying times for all women in the city. You're most at risk."

You yank your eyes open and she's leant on the edge of the table opposite you.

"I'll move my stuff in this evening." You find yourself saying.

She nods and stands. "Good." She goes to move toward the door and then pauses, manicured fingernails curling around the doorframe. She turns her head back to look at you like she did the first time in the mist and murk of the marsh and just says, "At least that way if your shower breaks down you can always use mine." Then, with a smile, she's gone.

 

* * *

You've moved your stuff in. The pale cream of the hotel room is sharp contrast to the molten red of home, the enveloping warmth every time you open the door. There's a fancy bathroom with spotlights around the mirror and you really feel like that's too much, it's overly ostentatious and everything's too tidy and too clean and too plain and too _boring_. The only thing that isn't boring is the fact that two doors down is one of the most beautiful creatures to walk the planet and who only this morning invited you to use her shower. So there's that.

You stand now, gravitating in the middle of the room and wonder what she's doing. You heard her voice outside the door earlier and you couldn't help but feel your feet freeze into the soft carpet, wondering whether she was glancing at you through the door like you were glancing at her. Is she collapsed out on the bed, is she at the small coffee table, is she drinking, is she in the bath... The shower? You swallow that one away. Not today. You're knackered and quite frankly a little bit peeved that you even have to make this your temporary home just because some psycho has a fetish for breaking into places and killing the attractive female occupants.

You glance around your new surroundings and decide that seeing as you're still professionally dressed you'll give the bar a go. All the officers get complimentary drinks so two or seven free whiskeys tonight would go down a treat.

You leave the hotel room, door cushioning with a click behind you. The uniformed officers at the end of the corridor swing round to greet you, nod their heads. You explain you're off to the bar and they laugh and they say they wish they could come with you and you bet that they do, you think even you would get bored with guarding one stretch of corridor twenty four seven.

You take the lift with its just polished metal smell and straighten yourself up in the mirror. You don't look too bad. Your hair's a bit mussed, your blouse slightly creased. It'll do.

A ping and you've reached your destination. You stride through the doors and walk into a wall of soft jazz, deep oak furnishing and the comforting vibration of mundane chatter. Business partners discussing deals, a couple in the corner deep in some kind of make or break conversation, some holiday makers who are clearly on edge at the police presence and as you start to feel the tension leave your shoulders you spot her, slunk into a side booth, whiskey on the rocks sitting in front of her. The tension in your shoulders climbs straight back to fever pitch. She's texting and she hasn't noticed you and you decide that that's fine. You can just get your drink, blend into the bar, go.

You order and you're waiting, resisting the urge to turn around, see if she's noticed your presence, when you feel a warmth press up against your back and a very familiar arm slink through the gap between you and the next person, clink an empty lip stained whiskey glass on the bar and gesture for another. A bartender obliges instantly and you watch as the golden liquor swills around the glass and you hear the gentle thud as your own is placed in front of you. Then, there's a voice in your ear.

“Join me.”

And then the warmth has gone and you're left cold, so cold that you shiver. You take a sip of the whiskey, purely for Dutch courage than anything and you head over. You shiver a little more when you realise she's been watching you the whole time, bottom lip balancing against the glass, eyes twinkling.

You place the glass down and for a minute you sit in silence. You're not sure why she even invited you if all she's going to do is stare meticulously at both of your drinks, but you suppose it beats sitting alone. You hunt for a conversation starter but you're relieved when she kicks one off instead.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty five ma'am.”

She sighs, rolls her eyes. “Please stop with the ma'am. It's tedious.”

You can't quite tell her that calling her her real name makes it seem real and that just makes it really surreal.

“Right.”

“Twenty five and drinking whiskey. Long day learning it all?”

Her eyes are warm, inviting. It's a friendly dig, there's no offence but you sit up straighter under it. You are worthy to do this. You are allowed to have bad days.

“Long day moving all my stuff in. It's a tad ostentatious.”

“It's comfortable.” She counters. “Why ostentatious?”

“Lights around the mirror. Massive bed. Walk in wardrobe. Not what I'm used to.”

She smiles. “What's wrong with a massive bed?”

You pause.

“Nobody to share it with.”

She smiles. Her fingers wrap around the glass and she takes a sip of whiskey, gently placing the glass back onto the coaster.

“I have that problem.”

“Shit, isn't it?” Conversational, you think. Lighthearted.

“Quite.” She curls another smile along her mouth and there's a fire behind her eyes. “No partner?”

“I got too involved with the job. I hate to be cliché, but-”

“-I don't have the time” She echoes.

You laugh a little. “Yeah. Sorry, too obvious?”

“Not at all.”

Another silence settles in the air and you realise you're both sat weighing the other up.

“What makes you want to do this job?” She asks.

“Childhood dream I guess. Why do you do it?”

“Distraction.” She simply replies.

“From what?”

Then she looks at you, truly and honestly. “You'll have to wait and see. I'm going to turn in. Coming?”

You almost choke.

She smiles again, slowly, verging on patronising. “It's not a good idea for you to be sat alone.”

“You were” You frown.

“I wasn't. I had a... _Friend_ who had to go off.”

She elongates the word friend and you feel your stomach clench a little.

“Ah.”

“Drink up.”

She's standing looking down on you now and under the pressure you gulp the whiskey so fast it burns the back of your throat.

She watches as you stand, shake yourself off, try and swallow a little to get rid of the burning sensation and eventually falls into stride with your pace. It feels odd, but strangely comforting to have _her_ walking beside _you_ , expensive blazer brushing against the cotton of your shirtsleeve, heels clacking on marble floor.

As you wait for the lift she relaxes her stance, hands running through her hair, then curling into her pockets. You watch her unabashedly. She's not noticed you watching, she's too detached.

“Are you sleeping ma'am?” You notice your mistake as her eyebrows raise. “Stella.”

“No.” She says. “I haven't found something to knock me out yet.”

You smother a grin. “You've had whiskey. That should be a good start.”

She looks you over as the lift doors ping open. “Not enough.”

“Not enough whiskey?” The doors shut. The lift suddenly feels far too claustrophobic.

She turns to look at you. “Not enough to knock me out.”

You hold her gaze, noticing it's suddenly turned heavy, lidded.

“Shower alright?” She adds on, a musing afterthought.

“I've not tried it.”

The lift comes to a halt and the doors reveal the police studded corridor. They nod their heads to her and smile at you as you stride through. She pauses at your door.

“If it's not up to standard, do let me know.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

 

* * *

 

“I heard you were seen drinking whiskey with Gibson last night... Dangerous move after what happened a couple of weeks ago!”

You blink, a little confused. You're not particularly close to Sergeant Thomas, you don't particularly like him but now you're suddenly interested.

“Sorry?”

You're standing by the door to yet another creepy, decadent outbuilding, the wind is whipping in your face and Stella Gibson is twenty five feet away from you, in some deep conversation with Anderson and apart from that view, today has been a bleak affair.

“Did you not hear?!” He turns, excitedly. “She was seen kissing Reed, the pathologist! They apparently proper went for it, tongues and all. The solicitor we suggest was trying to chat up Reed and said she came over and just... Got involved. Personally I think he got a fuckin' crackin' view. I would've stood there all night.”

You freeze.

So Stella has a... _Girlfriend?_ You've only met Reed once, she seems nice, is attractive, definitely Stella's type but to have it confirmed knocks the wind right out of your sails. You want to know more, you want to know if they left together, went to bed together, you want to know if anybody else knows but there's a deep lead setting in the bottom of your stomach and it's making you not want to know anything about it instead. So you don't ask. You stand, you look straight ahead and you try and forget.

 

* * *

 

It's not that you've not been sleeping, it's that decent, relaxing, reenergising sleep has been coming few and far between recently. It's eight pm and really all you'd like to do is go and suffocate yourself in your pillows, but instead you're following Anderson down to the mortuary and all of a sudden it hits you: you're going to come face to face with the woman that Stella Gibson was seen all over. And you've had enough of that image recently. If you were going to be honest with yourself, it's one of the main reasons you're not sleeping. All you can see is her, barely dressed, out of breath, panting, moaning, rolling around in bed with Reed whose hands are everywhere, whose mouth is everywhere and you're like an outsider at the window just watching until it wakes you up and you're practically yelling in frustration and your sheets are soaked and you're gripping a pillow so hard your nails have practically pierced through the material.

Right now though, Anderson's staring at you.

“Are you alright? You look a bit pale?”

You nod your head.

“I know the morgue's a bit daunting... It's a bit grisly too really but it's great experience for you and we won't be here long.”

You're not quite sure how to explain to him that it's actually the living breathing figures, rather than the dead ones that are causing your face to lose colour.

You turn the corner and the first thing that hits you is an overpowering smell of bleach. You screw your nose up, you've never liked it because it reminds you of when you'd been sick when you were much younger and your mum had blitzed the house with whatever antibacterial cleaner she could find. Great start.

You're still in the midst of getting over that when you find you're walking along a small corridor that's raised above a glass partition and when you move your head to the right, there they are. Reed and Gibson in the most in-depth discussion you can find and they're so close together that your nighttime demons are almost threatening to spin the room. Until Anderson talks.

“Hiya! Sorry we're late. I thought I'd bring _the_ aide along, you know, experience and all.”

You come to a halt behind him and very bashfully smile. Embarrassing prick.

“Of course.” She says and Reed simply offers a friendly smile in your direction and that's alright then because you're just going to take notes and distract yourself from the fact that you're in the same room with both of them, thank you very much.

They start talking and it's more Reed pointing things out and you're there just scribbling away, important bits about fingerprint placement and scratches, one bruise behind the thigh, no sign of sexual assault, that's new, just a severe beating and you're running on autopilot when you get the sense that someone's watching you.

Very subtly you bring your writing to a slow and drag your eyes over the top of your clipboard and there she is, staring straight at you, eyes alight with curiosity. But you hate it, you find yourself suddenly bristling under it because the way she's looking at you is the way that a cat owner would look at a brand new kitten, expecting it to do something cute, roll over, or yawn or sleep and in the midst of these thoughts you find that you've both been holding each other's eye contact for about five minutes, nobody's backed down, and the room has blurred out of all focus.

You continue to hold it, all of your concentration now on this moment and you could swear the world has narrowed down to just this room. You're going to prove you're not a kitten you're a fully fledged, rippling tiger and whatever she's doing you're going to prove you're more than capable of handling. Until very subtly she leans back against the next bench, strokes a hand casually from her neck along her grey silk shirt and undoes a button. Everything in the world turns to screaming swimming noise, the room lurches from side to side, there's a blur of colour and then there's dead silence, three am still, completely mute. It's the way she's still looking at you now, eyebrow propped, like she's the hunter with the huge rifle and you're the poor little deer whose brains are going to be all over the forest floor.

You've forgotten how to breathe, Spector may as well have hold of your neck and suddenly you realise your ears are trying to filter something coming from outside, exactly like they do when you're underwater and someone's shouting for you to come up.

“Hello?!” Anderson's waving a hand in your face. “You really don't look well, are you okay?”

Everyone's looking at you. You've broken out in a sweat.

“Are you sleeping?” She's straightened up now, looking entirely professional and concerned, like she hasn't just somehow tried to seduce you in a mortuary.

You snap “I'm sleeping fine.”

“Why don't you get an early night? Tanya's gone over the main points, there's nothing else you'll need from this tonight.”

“Great plan!” Anderson backs up like he's got no coherent ideas of his own. “We have an early start tomorrow anyway for DSI Gibson's briefing, so you may as well. You'll really have to start telling me if you're too tired for things. At least that way you can be doing something useful.”

Your blood changes temperature from cold to seething. You nod and bid your goodbyes and you don't look back as you barrel the double doors open.

 

* * *

 

It's one am. As it turns out, you can't sleep because you're still quietly furious over Stella Gibson nearly getting you a severe bollocking, forward slash, sacked five hours ago. You've tried tele, you've tried a bath, a shower, you've tried your book, you've tried staring out the window, you've tried the cold side of the pillows, you've tried the other end of the bed and nothing's coming. The way you're feeling at the moment you would like to be out of this confining hotel room and in your bed at home, surrounded by your things and your smell. If you get killed by Paul Spector you think you'd welcome the dying because it's got to be better than whatever game your Detective Super Intendant is playing with you.

You collapse back down, knowing this is going to be another late night. If you're lucky you might sleep by four. That's three hours. Three would give you four hours. You're not expecting anything sooner than that. You lay there, calculating what every half hour and forty five minutes could give you when you hear a very faint knock on your door.

You pause. That could be somebody else's door. Maybe it's Stella's and her _girlfriend_ is coming up for a late night visit. Maybe it's Burnes. Maybe it's Anderson looking for someone. When it raps again, a little firmer, it's confirmed that it's yours.

You sit up and throw on a vest, checking yourself in the full length mirror. You actually look quite good. Your hair is newly washed and straightened, you look trim, in shape and your tartan pyjama pants are doing your legs and your bum a world of favours. The vest is even complimenting a flat stomach and sharp hip lines. Decent.

You creep toward the door, all the while the possibilities swimming round in your head. It could be Paul Spector. Maybe you cursed yourself. Maybe he's sensed that somebody wants to die, is a bit bored and has decided to get in again dressed as a cop. You're still not sure you'd complain tonight. Then it could be Anderson, maybe he's checking you're actually asleep. Maybe he's already written out your resignation letter. And then it could be her. The woman who is slowly but surely driving you insane and who you can't currently work out whether you want to smack or shag.

You press an eye to the peephole. What greets you is a flock of blonde hair and a cream silk gown. You rest your head and curse into the oak of the door because it feels like all the stars in the universe are joining up to spite you. You pull open the door.

“Stella?” You whisper. Saying her name out loud still doesn't feel comfortable in your mouth.

She glances you over as you step back to let her in. You kick the door closed, confusion etching into your brows, watching as she runs her fingers along the cabinets, the coffee table, the sofa, where she eventually lounges on one end, hand cupping her head as she looks up at you.

“You lied to me.”

Part of you thinks you could be lucid dreaming.

“Sorry?”

“You said you were sleeping.” She pauses. “And you said that whiskey knocks you out.” A glance at your drinks cabinet. Half gone. Then grey eyes boring into yours. “Not quite, it would seem.”

You don't know what she wants, but you do know that you're on edge, exactly like an olympic diver when they hang off the board. And you've just let go.

“You nearly had me sacked earlier. I don't understand.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Sacked?”

“You completely distracted me. Staring me out for a good ten minutes, unbuttoning your top. What was that about?!”

She laughs, low and fruity. “Distracted? Interesting.”

She's smiling at you, glistening white tombstone teeth blinding you. You bristle again because you realise what you've just said. Fuck.

“Why are you here?”

“I knew you were lying. I wanted to test my theory. And...” She adds in a sigh “I wanted to make sure you were okay. If there's something specific keeping you awake, we should talk about it. You have no reason to be afraid here.”

It's _you,_ you want to yell, _you_ keeping me awake.

“There's nothing. I think it's just the strain of not having a set routine. Different times to get up and so on.”

“Yes” She nods. “That would make sense.”

“You're still not sleeping.” You counter. Not a statement, not a question, just you being clever.

“No.” She says softly, the word drifting down like a feather to ground. “But that's nothing new.”

“Did you try everything I suggested?”

She raises an eyebrow and a grin begins to form at the corner of her mouth.

“They're not even working for you.” And then as an afterthought. “But I tried them and more. Thank you.”

Your brows furrow. “And more?”

She smiles. The look in her eyes changes and she recites in a mocking voice, “ _If I told you I'd have to kill you_.”

All the windows to your room may as well have been flung open to let the atmosphere in because there's a tension now, thick, dripping from the air and you freeze, blinded by what she's just said, blinded by how she looks, blinded by completely unprofessional feelings for this disgustingly attractive _superior officer_. That does it. You straighten up.

“Thanks for the concern but I'm fine. We should probably try and sleep. You're up earlier than me tomorrow.”

She nods. You don't know whether it's the light playing tricks on you but you could swear her face falls just an inch.

She stands, but makes no inclination to move. “You shouldn't pay attention to rumours.”

A sixty pound sumo wrestler may as well have just knocked into your windpipe because you certainly can't quite breathe.

“Sorry?!” You choke.

“I know what's going around. I knew it would. There's nothing going on between me and Tanya Reed.”

You blink. She's slowly stalking toward you.

“The way you looked at us both earlier gave you away. If you want to be in my position one day, you should probably work on neutral facial expressions.”

And then she is literally right in your face. You're not sure when that happened but she's standing so close to you you can smell raspberry and a hint of apple. Shampoo, or bedtime moisturising, you can't quite figure it out but it's intoxicating and your spine threatens you with giving away, with allowing you to crumple, to slide like you've been shot down the wall, to fall in a small ball at her feet.

“I-” You go to say but you're stopped because a very manicured finger is currently covering both of your lips. She looks up at you, eyes wide, a fire burning behind them.

“You've already lied to me twice. Don't make it a third.”

And then she's withdrawing her finger and she's sweeping past you, gown blowing in the floral breeze she's left and you hear the door open and close and you sink against the wall and you slide down it like you've been shot and you fall in a small ball, completely and utterly at her feet.

 

* * *

“If I shot you a look earlier it was only of jealousy”

You're standing, leant against the doorframe to one of the cubicles in the ladies loos. She's in front of you, undressing, swapping from formal uniform to something more comfortable, a blouse, a blazer. She doesn't react.

“I just keep dreaming about the pair of you. You're driving me insane.”

She stops, the last button on her shirt undone, hanging loose, revealing a blue bra tinged with lace. You try and keep your eyes focused on hers reflecting in the mirror.

“Dreaming about both of us?”

“Yeah. And you're there writhing around and I can't do anything, can't touch because it's like I'm outside, looking in through a window.”

She lets out a loose breath and then she turns to face you, shrugging completely out of the shirt.

“Would you like to touch?”

“Only you.”

Her eyes are half lidded, she looks flushed, full faced and she pulls herself up until she's sitting on the basins.

“Come here.”

You move, feet walking in a steady pace, hands outstretched and wanting and she leans forward, allows her naked back to melt into the open grip of your cold hands. She's so warm and she smells of jasmine and silk and you can already feel yourself going under.

She's looking straight at you now, eyes flicking down to your lips. She balances her forehead against yours and just says, “I've been waiting for this” and then she's closed the gap and she's kissing you, soft fullness of her lips entrapping yours, tugging gently. One of your hands move from behind her back to support her head, soft blonde hair wrapping round your fingers as you deepen the kiss, using your tongue to stroke along the top of her mouth, faintly along her teeth. She moans and it goes right through you, reverberates every nerve you have. Her legs wrap around your hips, pulling you in, rooting you to the spot. You untangle your hand from her hair, feel her pull back to gently bite your bottom lip and both hands dance along her back until you've found the lace outline of her bra. She arches up, allowing you better access and it's off in one swift motion, discarded to the side. You stop thinking then, you let your hands snake across her front, allow them to cup smooth, pale breasts, allow your thumbs to brush over and to gently circle already peaked nipple. Every move you make seems to be the right one, she's responding in all the right ways, nipping at your neck, breathless sighs deep into your ear, deep moans into your mouth. You think you're ready now, you can sense her becoming closer, needing so much more from you and you need to work with the space, with the time and so you do it, in front of her you drop to your knees and she gets where you're going with this and she moans even at the thought of it, one thin, toned leg snaking over your shoulder, your thumbs coming up to hook underneath a barely there piece of string, and you're edging it down, rolling it off of sharp hip bones, every move patient and slow, like you're unwrapping your last Christmas present when a knocking starts in your head. You ignore it at first, but now the visions spinning in front of you, you can't concentrate on where the string is, your hands are moving in different ways and the knockings louder and louder, growing to a deafening crescendo and you wrench your eyes open to try and see clearer and...

You're met with your hotel room. Faint light is spilling through the thick curtains, covering everything in awash of golden cream. It takes you a moment to realise that you're not on your knees in the female loos in front of Stella Gibson, but you're wrapped up in bed, gripping the covers like your life depends on it.

And the knocking is your door. Cursing your entire existence for what feels like the eighth time this week you check the bedside clock, glaring 7:00 at you. You stumble to the door, not caring what you look like and yank it open in the headiest way to show your annoyance as possible. It's Anderson. You could swear in his face.

“Morning! Wanted to make sure you were going to be on time to this one, so thought while I was up and about a wake up call would do no harm!” He winks and then beams at you, much like a four year old would do when showing its parents its very first painting. You resist the urge to grimace back at him.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Sleep well? Going to be more astute today?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Good! See you in half an hour!”

He struts off and you watch him go wishing something to drop from the ceiling and fall on his head.

 

* * *

As it turns out, you end up early for her briefing. Anderson insists it's fine that you're both significantly early, even though her team aren't anywhere near yet. You sit, willing it to just start, willing her to walk in so you can get over the awkwardness of not only seeing her last night, but your imagination then choosing to see her again in a very different way.

It's not long before the chatter of her team permeates the glass door and Anderson stands like some kind of overeager teachers pet and she's gliding into the room behind everyone. She doesn't acknowledge you, doesn't even look in your direction, just smiles at Anderson and swathes past to the back of the room. Burns meanwhile takes to the front of the meeting and you assume that he's, for whatever reason, taking over the briefing this morning. She doesn't seem bothered, white blouse dropped all the way to her cleavage, hands in baggy trouser pockets. She curls one leg over the other and you banish any thoughts of the way her leg snaked over your shoulder, instead choosing to focus really really _really_ hard on whatever it is Burnes is saying.

You manage that for fifteen minutes before you're taking a sneaky leant back glance in her direction. Her phones out and she's texting and you wonder if her and Burns have swapped roles for the day, her doing all the routine surveillance checks and him doing the boring informative talk. You manage to wrench yourself away and continue making small notes, attempting with all your might to not let your mind wander off, when your phone vibrates. It buzzes twice, so it's a text. You're not that sure you're allowed to check it, but deciding that it could be something important to the case you very sneakily prop your notes up and place your phone hidden behind their paper wall. It's an unknown number and the text simply reads: _Sleep last night?_

For a minute, panic swirls around in your stomach and claws your guts. What if it's him? What if he's somehow found your number? Been in your room, been through your personal things? Maybe he watched you. Shit maybe he's been in your closet, maybe he knows about your dream and now wants to kill you or ruin your life by telling everyone about it.

You manage to somehow take a steady breath, ready to somehow signal to Anderson that someone has your number and has text you a bizarre message, when it buzzes again. The same number: _Hiding your phone behind your notes. How very college of you._

Slowly you register that that means they're in this room and then your outward senses detect that someone is watching you. Someone at the back of the room with her phone in her hand. You resist looking in her direction, she's not getting that much from you this morning.

_How did you get my number?_

Carefully out the corner of your eye you see long fingers dancing over her screen and then: _I have to have them. You're a member of the team._

You physically lock your neck in place to stop yourself from visibly shaking your head.

_I slept. Did you?_

It's a lie. She'll never know. You're not sure what to make of the fact that she very pointedly ignored you on the way into the room but somehow has chosen to text you in the middle of what you imagine is probably an important briefing. You're not sure, because you're not paying that much attention anymore.

_Just. What notes are you making?_

You're not sure why she'd be interested in that and you're tempted to point out you stopped doing that a long time ago, but you decide to play along.

_Important ones._

_I'll quiz you on them later._

Then she's locking her phone, slipping it in her chest pocket and you give her what she wants because you watch her do it, quizzical look written over your face. She eyes you, amusement twinkling. Unbeknown to you, Burns has stopped talking and has sat back down and you're confused for a moment before you realise she's swapping places and is now moving into position. You're sure she's playing some kind of long game with you. Maybe she wants you to make some kind of move, to fall for it and then she can hoist you up in front of everyone and claim that you're not worthy because look how weak you are, if there's a charismatic killer how are you ever going to survive if it takes that much-

“... If that's okay with you DS Anderson?”

Wait. You swim your focus back into view to find he's nodding along, eyes flicking between you and her.

“Yeah that's fine, I'm sure it'll be great experience for you, eh?”

“Sorry, Sir, what will?”

You see her bite down a smirk.

“You're going to aide DSI Gibson this morning.” His look darkens “If you can stay awake.”

“Right” You nod eagerly.

“Shit” You think.

* * *

“Danni's not around this morning” She explains, elegantly dropping into the back seat beside you. “So I needed someone to hold things and write notes. And seeing as you were doing so well with that...” She trails off with a smirk.

You don't return it, you look straight ahead and nod.

“I nearly got another bollocking.”

“Ah, yes. You really need to start sleeping.”

She's not even looking at you, she's got her phone out and is texting furiously but you're fixing her with a look you're sure if you had superpowers would lift her out of her seat and throw her through the window.

“What was the aim of texting me?”

“To check it was the right number.”

She locks her phone and slips it back inside her pocket, finally returning your gaze. She doesn't flinch or buckle under the heat of it.

“If you're not comfortable with it I won't, but it is essential I have correct numbers for all team players.”

“I'm just trying to avoid getting sacked before I've even started.”

She pauses. “You are terribly afraid of that.”

Her phone buzzes and she checks it, smiling a little at the screen. You feel a fist clench your stomach. Reed? If not Reed, someone else? Another target? You can feel your blood beginning to steam and so you say it.

“I just don't understand your game.”  
Well, that's that out there you think.

She raises an eyebrow. “My game?”

“All the stuff you're throwing at me.” You lower your voice so the driver through the partition doesn't hear “Unbuttoning your shirt, texting me, coming into my room well after hours.”

She actually seems a little shocked that you've confronted her about it and now you're scared that because you have, she'll be more careful in future and you're not sure you want that. You're not sure what you want, apart from laying her down across the backseat of this car and letting her feel your frustration.

She looks out the window. “I didn't realise there were time limits on visiting another officer.”

“There's not.” You say, floundering like a fish out of water.

“So what's the problem?” She counters and she's looking at you, eyebrows well and truly furrowed.

You gawp. Technically there's not one, really. It's just. She comes wearing barely anything and that does not do favours for any part of you. But you're not that brave.

“You're missing my point.” You aim for.

“No. I understand your point” She says, dropping her voice, slowing every syllable. “Maybe you do need more sleep. I think you're overreacting to coincidence.”

 

 _Overreacting to coincidence_ my arse you think, all day, carrying it around like you're carrying twenty bags of heavy shopping. You snap at everyone, not for any given reason but because she is _infuriating_ , so bloody sexy but so bloody infuriating. You know that she understood what you were saying earlier, you could see it, feel it in the suffocating silence that you both sat in for the remainder of the journey. She got out the car without looking at you, failed to introduce you properly to any of the nurses in the hospital, she didn't even introduce you to the recent victim you're taking notes on. All she's done for most of the day is pointedly avoid you and now you're slushing through overgrown marshland to the latest hide out that Spector could have been at. It's windy and there's rain in the air, crashing onto your face, making you shiver as the air whips through all of your clothing and scratches along your neck and you watch her as she looks absolutely perfect, even in awful weather. The wind is only doing favours for her hair, fanning it gently behind her, making every strand jostle and dance. She wraps herself a little tighter against the harrowing weather and you're tempted to ask whether she's warm enough, whether she needs anything and then you remember that you've not spoken since about ten am this morning and you decide against it.

“Do I intimidate you?”

The words float back through the gust, whistle in your ears.

“What?”

She halts in her tracks, halfway up a hill that may as well be a relative of Mount Everest.

“Do I intimidate you?” She repeats, as if you haven't heard the first time.

“No.” You say, because it's the truth.

Gingerly she extends a very cold finger toward you and runs it along the underside of your jaw. Her eyes are boring into yours and you're stood still, feeling the mud below your feet and willing that it provides enough of a friction to keep you upright.

“You're not lying. That's a start.”

“I wasn't lying to you about-”

“The whiskey, yes. The look in the mortuary you were going to, though.”

She retracts her finger, cups it under your chin, forces your head back.

“I don't know how you work that out.”

“Your face. Your eyes give you away. We're alike in that respect.”

She drops her finger and you feel your head almost lull forward.

“We are?”

“Our eyes are windows to our soul.”

You're not sure whether or not she's been on the gin, so you just stare her out.

“I wasn't sure what to say to you after your outburst this morning. Sorry.”

The sentence is so gentle it makes you want to wrap her up and not let her go.

“It's fine. Sorry for making things a bit... Weird.”

She nods her head. “Be at your best where we're going.”

And with that, she turns and continues, hair shooting out over both of her shoulders. You stand for a while, dumbstruck with how this woman can throw curveballs out of nothing. You choose to ignore the feeling that you've just picked up a significant gauntlet.

 

* * *

 

You do well on picking up her gauntlet and running with it. So well that she even congratulates you in front of Anderson, sending him into spiralling shock and allows you out with her three more times. Each is rather similar to the last with nothing significant happening: she ignores you for a bit, introduces you to one person, ignores you for a bit more, has a meaningful conversation with you, ignores you for a bit more and the cycle repeats. It's not until a week after her last button incident that something changes between you two, and she tries it again on a much riskier scale.

It's another late, bitingly cold Northern Irish night, well past nine o'clock when you're called to accompany Anderson to drop in some substantial evidence to both her and Burns. He's called ahead, so unfortunately she's definitely going to be there and you say unfortunately because it's been a really long day and you're not sure you can take any more of her subtle games if she's going to start playing them.

You reach the floor and she's there, leant against one of the tables, Burns sat scratching his fingers through his ever more greying beard. Anderson knocks on the door with more enthusiasm than either of them can seem to muster and starts on his intricate essay.

You watch her throughout because you're in a position where you can. Anderson is shadowing you from Burns' gaze, but she can see you quite clearly. Half of her attention is on the board but the other half always seems to come back to the corner where you're standing. So you decide to mimic it. You do the same, whenever she drifts her gaze to you, you throw it fully into the board and when her attention returns to either of the men, you let your gaze saturate her.

She seems to have cottoned on to what you're doing though because all of a sudden she's sitting, leaning her back up and over the table as if she's relaxing. But she's not. One hand very subtly undoes another button and the blouse falls, resting in the centre of her bra. She's played it off well, just as if it's an accident as she's leant back to cool off... But you know it's aimed at you and so you play it back.

You stretch, full bodied, stretching your arms up high and then you bring both hands down to the corner of your shirt and twist your hands through each other, fake yawn and raise again, knowing that you're showing the outline of jutting hipbones and a taut stomach.

She's noticed because you can feel her gaze, and when you drop back down you meet her newly darkened eyes, glinting with something more than just amusement this time.

“Stella” Burns says, bringing you both out of your distraction “I'm just going to take Anderson up to surveillance. I think he's onto something.”

“Fine by me.” She nods and Anderson promises he won't be long to you as they brush past.

Once the rooms empty, you lean gently on the end of the far table. She's looking at you with deep intensity.

“Nice stretch?”

“Great, thanks.”

She smiles as if you've just walked into her little trap and this time, keeping her eyes thoroughly locked on yours, undoes another button.

You stop breathing. This time you're not dreaming, you're not going to wake up to an empty hotel room, you are most definitely conscious and watching this happen.

“Sorry” She says, softly, agonisingly sultry “It's always warm in this office.”

“It's fine.” You swallow, because you're not giving in that easily. “Guess you warm when you did that in the mortuary too.”

She's not expecting your challenge and you can tell by the jolt of her shoulders that she's taken aback.

“Yes.” Slow, controlled.

“Even though it was a mortuary. And they're quite cold.” You follow up.

“Must have been the atmosphere.”

It's a clever counter, but she's grinning gently from one side of her mouth. You're tempted to give in now, to stride across the room and have her there on the table with the risk of Anderson and Burns walking in to one hell of a scene, but you decide against it.

For a while you both sit looking at each other until she notices that you're not going to walk straight into her game that easily. Half of her seems disappointed as she hauls herself off up of the table, doing up buttons as she goes, but the other seems invigorated, like she's glad you're hard to crack.

“Is it control that gets you off?” You find yourself saying, voice deeper, smoother than you've ever heard it.

From where she's standing, staring at the words on the board you see a shiver run down her neck.

“No. I'm looking for someone to take me out of it” She says, as if she's talking about the weather. “I don't think that's you, though.”

Something inside you deflates.

“You don't seem to be in it very long. Maybe you're too young” She muses “Too inexperienced.”

You splutter and you go to reply something along the lines of she's wrong, so wrong but you don't because Anderson's bursting back in the room and the moments gone and she's turned back round to the board like she's never said it and it hangs in the air and it echoes around your head for days.

 

* * *

You can't say that you're surprised to find her in your room, but you can't say you expected it either. It's been a long Wednesday, and if you had anything to look forward to on the weekends you'd be wishing for it to hurry up. You're soaked through, because apparently all it can do is rain or be gloomily overcast in Belfast and on top of everything the lift is taking ages to come down.

You'd received a text earlier in the day from the number you haven't quite got round to saving, simply asking: _Are you free tonight?_

But you'd ignored it. You weren't sure why. You think the _too inexperienced_ is running around your head, causing more chaos than you'd ever like to admit to. It's been there for days and you can't quite shift it, because the minute it replays, so does _I don't think that's you, though_ and you end up staring at that text for a good ten minutes before you delete it out of spite. Fuck her. You'll teach her about _inexperienced_ and she can stew on it.

By the time you reach the corridor your mood matches the now thundering weather, grumbles rolling across the sky, ping ponging from one side of the city to the other. Your own grumbles are ping ponging either side of your head as you jam the key card into the slot with more force than necessary and switch on the lights.

You jump back as if scalded because there's a familiar figure spread across your bed, Monet painting style. Blonde hair spilling out across your pillows, arms outstretched either side, blouse barely covering thin, taut skin, tight skirt gripping outstretched legs, bare feet crossed over, killer heels on the floor. For a minute you entertain the thought that she could be dead, that Spector may have known about your dream after all and has sent you her body as a warning, until there's a gentle rise and fall of her chest, loose blouse material curling gently in on itself and out again. She revolves her head to look at you as you regain your breath, panting desperately against the wall.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

She draws her eyes back to the ceiling, seemingly unfazed that she's just caused you a mini heart attack.

“Thinking.”

“Thinking” You repeat slowly, as if you're missing some giant piece of the puzzle.

“Can you not do that in your own room?”

“No. I find different rooms have different atmospheres.”

You stare at her like she's gone mad and you're very subtly pinching yourself through your uniform, half of you convinced she is nothing more than an angry, exhausted hallucination and the other ready to phone Anderson to tell him to tell someone that you think the lead DSI has gone mad.

“Join me if you like.” She says, soft and slow.

You shake your head. “I'm soaked through.” The excuse sounds more feeble out loud than in your head as it darts around the room.

She lifts her eyebrows, drops them, goes back to focusing on one particular spot in the ceiling.

“You ignored my text.”

You gape. Your mouth physically falls open.

“Is this what you do to everyone that ignores your texts?!”

“Not many people do ignore them.” She drawls.

“How the fuck did you get in?!”

“We have spare keycards. In case of emergency.”

“This isn't an emergency.”

“Don't be pernickety.”

You blink. You notice by your bed is a glass, half full of your whiskey.

“Apparently that means you can drink my alcohol too.”

She ignores that. Remains in posture just staring up at the ceiling like it's going to spring forth and answer whatever it is she's going over in her head. You sigh, pour yourself your own drink and shrug out of your jacket. You stand right at the foot of the bed and you can tell her gaze has dropped from the ceiling to the scene in front of her, so just for fun you allow your see through shirt to remain exposed, before you're slowly discarding that and her eyes are drinking you in. You slip into a jumper like it's nothing and she rolls her eyes skyward, pretending to have been staring at the same spot all along. Then, gingerly, you place yourself on the edge of your own bed just beside her ankles.

Outside, the wind thrashes against solid windowpane, throwing sharp rain at it with every gust. You find it's strangely relaxing to let the song of the storm sing between you for a while.

“Are you okay?” You ask, because you're not sure what you're supposed to say in these situations.

“You're annoyed at me.” She ponders. “The inexperienced comment.”

You look away. You'd almost forgotten she's the smartest woman you know.

“It wasn't great to hear.” You settle for, because it's done really. You're not over it, but you're not willing to discuss it on a night like tonight.

She sits up, balancing herself on her elbows and just stares at you and she looks breathtaking. Almost as if you reached out and touched her now you'd ruin something. Golden hair slinks around her face, collarbones jut and muscular shoulders snap into their toned lines. You still want to forgo all sense of your control, crawl across the bed, crash your mouth into hers, tell her to lay back and let you make her stop thinking.

“Sorry.” She says.

“It's fine.” You reply, more than a hint of fatigue seeping through.

“You're still not sleeping.” She states.

“Neither are you.” You throw back.

She smiles. It's a stupid thing to say because even you know by now, that isn't something of great importance to her.

“Out there now, women are in danger up and down the City. From the well lit areas, to the poorer unlit districts. They don't have police officers in front of the door, or stalking the streets. Sometimes it just feels... Wrong.”

She sits up fully, blouse falling open and you force your eyes to remain on hers.

“I know.” You say because you do know. You understand that sometimes the security feels too cheeky. Like police officers should be able to look after themselves. Like they shouldn't need other police officers to do the same thing, like those police officers should be out protecting the people that can't protect themselves.

She studies your face, looking for any hint that you might not be genuine. That you might just be reassuring her or passing her off, but she doesn't find it and she sighs and nods.

“You're wiser than you look.” And then, slowly “Perhaps I was wrong about the inexperience.”

You smile and you're relieved to find her smiling back at you.

“So you broke into my room to apologise in a really long winded way?”

She shakes her head. “No. I did come here to think.”

“Did you work out what you were trying to?”

She looks at you and smiles sadly, “Not really.”

“Sorry my room couldn't help.” You find yourself saying with a hint of something genuine. You sort of understand that maybe she'd want to look at a different four walls, even if they are somewhat similar to her own.

She weighs you up. “I'll have to try it again.”

“I'll ignore your text again then.”

“Next time I think I'll just surprise you.” She smiles. “If your heart can take it.”

 

* * *

It's an early Thursday evening when you're allowed the night off. You're used to getting in at late hours and going straight to bed, so as you head toward the lift you're actually a little lost as to what to do with your free time. Anderson, one of the main people you talk to, is apparently out on an important evening and Stella is also missing in action. You don't want to text because it transports you to when you were a needy teenager and makes you feel headily uncomfortable.

The lift doors slide apart and you step inside, thumbing your floor. They're just closing when all of a sudden a hand, female, you notice by the nail varnish, snakes inside them and with all of it's might pushes them apart. You watch in awe as Danni Ferrington, Gibson's own PC slides through the doors and then brushes the grease off her hands.

“I feel a bit like superwoman” She exclaims. “Danni, you're the other PC! I've been wanting to meet you.” She extends her hand and you take it, introducing yourself as the lift starts to ascend.

“What are you doing tonight?” She asks outright, one eyebrow propped in questioning.

“Er... I actually don't know.”

“Brilliant” She says, voice resounding with enthusiasm “You're coming out with me to a fancy bar and we're having some cocktails.”

“We are...?” You stutter.

“We are. I'm bored, we've both got a free night, Stella's away to dinner with your boss and so while they're bonding we may as well too.” She finishes with a smile.

You're still stuck on the part where Anderson and Stella are out to dinner. _Bonding._ _Together_.

You feel yourself nod. “Okay.”

“Great!” She says as the lift pings open. “Doll yourself up and meet me in the corridor in forty!”  


You're ready and loitering when you see her bouncing down the corridor, brushed move dress accentuating a very trim figure. She looks good, hair curled and sitting on her shoulders, high heels so that she's towering over you in flats. You weren't sure how _dolled up_ to go, so you've chosen the easy option, a figure complimenting jumpsuit and you've tidied your hair a little.

She links her arm through yours as you head to the end of the corridor, officers turning around with eyebrows raised.

“And where do you think you two are going?”

“Out” Danni beams. “Out to the new cocktail bar in town to thoroughly enjoy ourselves on this rare night off.”

The officer stands on tiptoes and looks over you both. “And where's your protection?”

“Oh fuck off” Danni exclaims. “We don't need it. We've both got our radios, if he's going to try it on two officers in a public place he's more stupid than we give him credit for.”

“You know the rules.”

The officer radios something in and the lift doors ping open. Out strides Burns, looking exhausted.

“Sir, please tell officer Ferrington that she and her accompanying officer need plain clothed surveillance with them.”

“Where are you going?” He asks, authority melting into every word.

Danni bristles. “Into town. The cocktail bar.”

“Yes. You do.”

“Jesus!” Danni bellows. “Is this going to happen every time now? Am I going to need surveillance watch me get a sneaky donut from Tesco?”

Burns says nothing, but three plain clothed officers appear from the far end of the corridor.

With a smile and a bidding of goodnight, he brushes past.

 

You have to give it to Danni, you decide after three drinks you can barely remember the name of, you can certainly tell why Gibson likes her as her PC so much. She's confident and loud and full of energy and in a strange way, her authority shows through in her abrasiveness.

“What's Anderson like then?” She asks you, midway through your fourth shared cocktail.

You shrug. “He's okay. Sometimes I feel like he's a little too overbearing. Sometimes I feel like he's too much of an overeager kid.”

Danni throws her head back and laughs. “At least you can't say that about Stella!”

“What's she like?” You pry. You're not sure you want to know, but you feel as if Danni is the perfect person to ask.

“Sometimes she's really fucking annoying.” She says. “Other times she's really fucking brilliant.”

“And scary?” You press.

Danni laughs. “Terrifying. Absolutely shit-yourself-if-you've-done-something-wrong _terrifying_.”

You both laugh and as the laughter settles Danni says “And really super sexy. I'm not sure as a person she's even legal.”

You nod your head and clink your glasses in a toast at that. “What's the deal with her and Anderson going out for dinner?”

“God only knows. It was his suggestion apparently. I want to say that she's not banging him but you can never be sure with Stella Gibson.”

It may be the excessive alcohol, but you feel your stomach turn.

“Oh?”

Danni leans in. “You can't tell anyone but last year, when all of this case had just started up, she was sleeping with one of the officers, who was later shot but that was unrelated, who was married. And I heard a rumour she had a thing with Burns for a while too.”

“Jesus” You find yourself saying while Danni nods in agreement. “Did you hear the thing about her and Reed?”

“Yes!” Danni sits straight forward, back ricocheting off the chair. “Yes I did. My god that gave me hope.”

You feel your brows furrow.

“I'm gay.” She says, as if it's a name of a cocktail. “And I would _love_ to bed that woman. It would be wrong of course on so many levels but I'd think about that afterwards.”

You hold each others gazes and burst out laughing. You're beginning to really like Danni.

“So what about you?” She asks. “Partner?”

“Single” You say. “Not enough time.”

“Completely understand” Danni says. “I've had more one night stands doing this job than I ever had at Uni.”

“Sad really isn't it” You sigh.

“Definitely. But I suppose there's always time for that once we've done here. Are you sleeping?”

You find yourself wondering whether you just look that rough nowadays that people are automatically sensing it.

“Do I look that bad?”

“No no!” Danni giggles. “No when I started I could barely sleep. I think it was the pressure. Anyway I tried everything and what I found was that I just needed a good shag. Gets the stress out.” She leans back in her chair. “Try it” She says, as if she's offering you a recipe for chicken “Go up to someone, tell them you're a police officer, mope about how hard the job is, watch how quickly you're in their room.”

You find yourself laughing. “Is that what you do?”

“Pretty much!” And then with a smirk, “I was given that tip by an expert herself.”

You automatically know she's referring to Stella and all of a sudden your stomach lurches as the words come flooding back from that night in your room “... _and more_ ” “A _nd more?” “If I told you, I'd have to kill you._ ”

“Blimey.” You find yourself saying for something to say. “Is that what she does?”

“Do you know, I'm really not sure! If I had to put money on it I'd probably say that she does, yeah.” Danni leans back, contemplating. “But it must be so easy if you're her mustn't it. You probably only have to look at someone.”

“Yeah” you find yourself thinking. “Yeah you probably do.”

 

* * *

You wake up in the morning cursing Danielle Ferrington and the very earth she walks on. Your head is spinning, your mouth's dry and you've overslept by half an hour. You stumble through your morning routine, drinking more water than is humanly possible in the hope you can shake it off before the briefing and consume a good seven mints before you're slipping out your door and into the corridor.

You've barely gone three steps when you feel someone creep up behind you and fall into your pace and you can smell her before you see her, invigorating smell of jasmine easing into your senses.

“I hope you had a good night last night” She purrs “Introducing my PC to bad habits.”

You pass through the watching officers at the far end of the corridor with a grimace.

“In my defence I think it was more the other way round.”

She turns as you thumb for the lift, both eyebrows raised.

“I think you're both as bad as each other.”

“Danni said you were out bonding with Anderson so we should do the same. So that's what we did. I do regret my actions this morning.”

You step into the lift in sync and she raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Bonding with Anderson?”

You pause. Shit.

“Her words” You throw your hands up “Not mine.”

She turns back to face forward. “I wasn't _bonding_ with anyone. It was a business meeting.”

“I'm fairly sure you don't have to share that information with me.”

“The last thing I want is a rumour that I'm seeing Anderson too. May as well kill the rumours before they grow.”

You're not sure what that means.

“You think I'm going to start rumours about you.” You state.

“No” She sighs “Danni has a very easy mouth.”

You reach the ground floor and walk in sync through the reception. You're stuck for words because you don't know whether rumours genuinely bother her or she's just winding you up to see how far she can push you.

When you reach an awaiting car, she holds the door open and gestures, 'after you'. You slip in, shrugging yourself across the backseat, wondering if she's just going to put you in a car and forget about you when she drops in beside you.

There's silence.

“Rumours shouldn't bother you” You start. “You should take it as a compliment.”

“I should take it as a compliment that I'm sleeping with someone new most weeks?”

“To be honest” You say “I think most people are just wishing.”

You leave that one hanging, smirk gripping the corner of your mouth and stare out the window.

“Are you wishing?”

You snap your head round to face her so quickly you're sure you give yourself acute whiplash.

“I haven't made up a rumour we're sleeping together.” Calm, controlled. You can do this.

“I'll remember to listen out for one.”

You open and shut your mouth. Grey eyes are twinkling at you with amusement but you're not feeling it. You're suddenly feeling very on edge and so you simply end up spluttering “So will I.”

 

* * *

 

Waking-up-feeling-like-death Friday mornings are beginning to get a bit of a habit with PC Danielle Ferrington. Last night had been a mixture of you both giving up on a quiet night in and her usual excuse “ _Our superiors are out bonding. We'll do the same_.” What you hadn't encountered for this morning was that there would be a mystery briefing in the morgue at nine am. Nobody needs to be near a morgue at nine am, especially not you when you're feeling as if you could quite easily relate to the people on the slabs.

You're early, as expected because you're doubly paranoid you could still be drunk or in the midst of a potentially crashing hangover and when you burst through the doors all you find are Stella and Reed standing either end of the table in another deep meaningful conversation. There's something different about Stella this morning though, she appears more reserved, almost a little delicate and you find yourself wondering whether somebody else had a little bit too much to drink.

You clear your throat because nobody's noticed you're here and announce, “Sorry I'm a bit early.”

Stella languidly raises her head to look you over and Reed throws you an energising smile but nobody says anything and so you find yourself floundering, loitering in the corner of the glass petition pretending to check your phone. Their conversation doesn't resume and you remember to note that down under “ _Things that are potentially weird_.”

Luckily – and that's the only time you'll ever say that about him – Anderson saves you from the growing awkwardness by bursting through the doors with more energy than a child on Christmas Eve and you suddenly notice, wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

“Sorry” He smirks, looking straight at Stella whose gaze has dropped to the corner of the table “Had a late night.”

Your stomach drops. Drops and then swoops like an acrobatic plane because in front of your eyes the pieces to a beginners jigsaw have just dropped into place with the ringing sound of “ _They're bonding again_ ”.

Reed looks between Stella and a swaggering Anderson and seems to cotton onto the exact same line of thought you are. Her face gives away her reaction, one of distasteful surprise.

Reluctantly you follow Anderson down the stairs, all the time wondering if you just tripped him and he went sprawling whether or not you could pass it off as an accident in time. And then it's just the four of you. Gathered round a dead body, staring at each other, saying nothing, the weight of what's just happened laying in the air.

Reed breaks the silence by launching straight into her findings and Anderson is pretending to pay attention but you notice ever so often his gaze drops into the corner where Stella is standing, staring at her feet. Last time you were in here she wouldn't stop looking at you. Today she's managed it for two minutes.

You don't concentrate throughout the entirety of whatever Reed is saying and you're glad of a reprieve when Stella's phone rings.

“Gibson... I'll find someone. Thanks.”

“Danni needs a PC to cover the crime scene with her. Do you know anyone?” She directs as quickly as possible at Anderson's left shoulder blade before looking away. He's about to open his mouth when you spy the perfect opportunity.

“I'll do it.”

Anderson swivels around to look at you, one eye raised in question. “Well if you're sure.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Okay, great, thanks!” He smiles. You can see his thought process flick across his eyes: One more out the way and then he's got Stella alone. You resist the urge to bundle him into the below freezing temperature fridges.

And as you leave, you choose to ignore the sensation of a pair of eyes burning into the back of your neck.

 

* * *

 

You practically floor it on the way to Danni and when she spots that it's you pulling up, her face lights up in one of such excitement you could hug her.

So you do. A full wrap around, completely unprofessional-seeing-as-you're-on-duty hug.

She laughs when you pull away and questions you on what that was for but you shrug. It's just nice to see a friendly face after the worst possible start to the morning.

“Right boys” She starts “It's girl power from here on out. If you leave the latte's though, thank you.”

The two retreating officers roll their eyes and leave with a wave as Danni hoists a cup of steaming hot coffee in your face.

“Caramel latte. Smooth, creamy, and great to rebuild the stomach lining.”

You laugh around the cardboard cup and throw her a grin. Both of you stand for a moment, eyes straight ahead sipping your drinks before you decide that you need to relay to Danni what happened this morning otherwise you'll burst.

“Stella slept with Anderson last night.”

You're expecting Danni to whirl around, coffee to slosh over the carton, drip onto her uniform, her to swear and get in a fluster but all she does is pause mid sip and sigh.

“I guessed. But you first, how do _you_ know?”

She turns around, face full of intrigue and you do the same, ducking your heads closer together in case of eavesdroppers.

“When I got to the morgue this morning she wasn't herself at all, looked really awkward and then in he walks, shit-eating cat-that-got-the-cream grin. In the same clothes as yesterday.” Danni gasps. “He looks straight at her, announces he's sorry because he _had a late night_ and she literally turns the colour of the girl on the slab. Reed looks at her, looks at him and looks just as disgusted as I must have.”

“Holy shit” Danni exclaims. “Ew what a slime. I guessed because Oliver was on duty last night and he said they came up from drinks together, went in her room, then he didn't leave until five am and I assume went to sleep somewhere, obviously not home.”

“Rank” You say around your cup. “I couldn't believe it.”

“It was bound to happen” Danni sighs. “She made a pass at Reed a few weeks ago and she's only human with needs like the rest of us. I told you, it's the pressure of the job.”

“But why him!” You find yourself saying and realise you need to reel it in. You love Danni but the worst thing for her to do would be to report back about the _weird other PC questioning your sex life ma'am._

“Because he was there. She's always been the same. Olson, Burns... Reed! I'm just patiently waiting for when she picks me!”

And then you relax and laugh along because you remember: You and Danni both share one thing above all others in common. The waiting list for Stella Gibson.

“Uh-oh” Danni suddenly straightens up.

“What?” You follow her eye line to the sound of an approaching car.

“Talk of a promiscuous Super Intendant and the promiscuous Super Intendant shall appear.”

“Shit” You mutter, mimicking Danni's now half professional stance: Coffee cup gripped to one side and eyes straight ahead. You pick a roof tile of the terraced house opposite to concentrate on.

She pulls up, need for speed style, yanking the handbrake on and eliciting a squeal from the back tyres. She gets out the drivers side and it's then you realise that Reed is getting out the passenger. Stella swathes past you both, not saying anything, not looking at either of you but Reed hangs back to make eye contact and offer a warm smile.

Danni turns her head and catches your eye, mouthing “Lovers tiff” before making swatting hand gestures.

You bite down a laugh, knowing that for the time being your gossiping will have to wait. Professionalism has to take first place but more to the case, there's no longer a door but a tarpaulin sheet covering the entrance to the scene and that's not very soundproof.

It feels as if it's been an hour when you flick your eyes across to Danni, waiting until she notices. You mouth “What are they doing?!” and Danni shrugs her shoulders. She mimes taking photographs, talking, picking things up and looking under them, more photographs and note taking. You're just about to offer her a nod in response when the sheet rustles and so you both snap back to steely straight forward gazes.

You can smell the jasmine before you can see her, as always, but you remain fixated ahead. She could barely look at you this morning and now you barely want to look at her. You're scared of the consequences of unravelling why that is.

“Professor Reed needs someone to accompany her back to the morgue and I need an officer. Pick which one of you is doing which.”

“I'll accompany Professor Reed” You state authoritatively, not making eye contact, still staring at the evidently uninteresting roof tile.

“Right.” She weighs you up, expression unreadable. “Danni let's go.”

As Danni passes you you notice the look she's giving the back of Stella's head, as if exclaiming “ _I was the obvious choice anyway!_ ” and you can't help but grin as Danni raises her eyebrows in a questioning, shocked stance. As you both move into position to open the separate squad cars front doors you catch Danni's eye again and gesture the best you can, “Find out the gossip” with hand talking symbols and of course, as Reed ducks into the seat, a thrust of midair.

Danni laughs so hard she nearly collapses into the car as she shuts the door, covering it badly with a hacking cough. You can't help but sneakily laugh, biting down your bottom lip to keep from bursting.

Once you've done finishing your “Talk to you later” in response to Danni's you realise what is now awaiting you. A forty minute drive with Reed, in which you need to say nothing about her and Stella, Anderson and Stella and even perhaps you and Stella. No Stella at all. For forty minutes. Easy.

 

* * *

 

As awkward car journeys go, you're pretty sure that one could have swept all the awards. Neither of you said anything to each other, Reed staring out the passenger window, you staring straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel so tightly your knuckles were screaming white. When you hit traffic, the only conversation that stemmed was one regarding the annoyance of it and then Reed questioning you on your friendship with Danni, stating how “Nice it is to have a friend in this profession”. You'd nodded and agreed, reluctant to entertain the conversation further because you weren't sure how much Reed was reporting back to Stella, despite their obvious indifference this morning.

The sense of relief you felt when you pulling up to the hospital was one of overwhelming magnitude but Reed thanked you with a smile so warm that you actually felt slightly ashamed for not talking to her out of fear and niggling paranoia.

You'd watched her go, contemplating that you may have been a bit of a muppet for forty minutes and by the time you'd got back to the office found that nobody was back yet, your only task to sit on the control room in surveillance.

You think it's been about seven hours since you did that. It certainly feels like it. Nothing's happening, there's no movement from any of the exits on the house, none on the road, none on any of the cars.

Theoretically you could call Anderson and see if he needs assisting but you're not sure you're up for being anywhere within five metres of him still smelling like last night and still smiling like a hyena on LSD. You could also call _her_ and see if she needs anything, but ultimately the same reason you don't want to be around Anderson also applies to why you don't want to be around your DSI. Just without the hyena smiling. All in all your waste of thirty minutes brings you to the conclusion that the surveillance room is the safe room.

You try not to replay the odd instances of the morning. You don't want to think about why Stella could barely look at you after her night with Anderson and why she prominently asked you and Danni which of you wanted to accompany her, when Danni is _her_ PC. You're not sure what Reed and Stella were conversing about so deeply that it caused them to stop when you entered the room either, because it certainly wasn't about Stella and Anderson and you're not really sure why Reed beamed at you the way she did when you'd said about five sentences to her over a fairly large span of time.

You don't know anything. All you do know is that the surveillance room is boring.

You text Danni because you decide that's the only way you're going to kill time until she's back on patrol and also, for reasons you don't know either, you're dying to find out whether Stella spoke to her about last night.

You opt for the casual: _Well...?!_ and ignore the butterflies gnawing your stomach.

Five minutes pass. Ten. You know this because all that is interesting to do in the surveillance room is apparently watch the time change.

Finally, a double buzz. Your stomach lurches into your throat.

_She is in SUCH a mood!! Omg u wouldn't believe. She's driving and I'm scared for my life I think she thinks she's on a race track!!_

You laugh, out loud to yourself, unabashedly, ignoring the odd eyebrow quirks you get from through the window of next door.

_What's she said?_

Another ten minutes pass. You think you can feel yourself ageing by a good year.

_R u kidding?! I've not asked and she's not said!! She's ignored me ALL day!! Maybe u should have gone with her at least Reed would have spoken!!_

You don't want to think about what that means, either. Why's she in such a mood? Argument with Reed? But Reed looked fairly happy... Inwardly though you're also quite pleased to see it's not just you she ignores all day. With a sense of puzzling bemusement hanging over you, you reply:

_As it turns out, me and Reed spoke 5 sentences. I was a bit scared. Please hurry back soon, surveillance is so exciting I think I've grown some wrinkles._

 

Danni doesn't end up getting back until an hour later and you're pleased to find that she's managed to shake off Stella to rescue you from the surveillance room.

“Praise the Gods!” You announce as another PC takes over your stance and Danni ushers you off to the ladies toilets.

You're loitering now, leant against the sink while Danni relays her morning through the cubicle door.

“Like holy shit she was in such a mood. I tried everything, lighthearted conversation, where we going, developments, I even tried the weather. I never talk about the weather!”

There's the sound of a loo flushing and as the door unlocks you can see the frustration etched into her face. You can't help but grin.

“Shut up!” She slaps you. “It was terrible. Why didn't you speak to Reed? She's not scary!”

“She hardly initiated anything! She stared out the window and then she started asking me about our friendship and I wasn't too sure why she'd do that so I panicked incase she was relaying information back-”

The main door to the toilets opens and your words die in your mouth. Danni goes mutely quiet and both of you try and act as inconspicuous as possible as Stella Gibson wanders in, eyebrows already raised.

“Who's relaying information where?”

Danni chokes and you flounder for a split second before you rattle: “Danni's new girlfriend. Well not girlfriend more like one nighter. Already telling her parents they're together. Weird.”

Danni's eyebrows shoot up but thankfully she regains control over her face quick enough to nod and hum “Mm. It's so strange. I don't know what to do about it.”

She looks between you both as if you're hiding the secrets of the Kremlin.

“So why does that allow you to panic?”

She's turned on you now and in your head you realise not only is it the most she's said to you all day, it's the longest you've both managed to look at each other and you're fairly sure that's because Danni is less than a foot away from you.

“Incase I said something that gave away Danni wasn't that invested. We don't know if she's psycho yet.”

She murmurs and nods her head. “Quite the bond being built isn't there.”

Then she's entering one of the cubicles and you and Danni take that as the perfect escape route.

“I think that's the most she's said to anybody all day. Aside from Abi.” Danni contemplates.

“That's the longest she's been able to look at me all day since the news broke about her and Anderson this morning.”

“Christ. Well, count yourself lucky. You might be able to escape being on a job with her all day too!”

 

* * *

As it turns out, you don't have that kind of luck.

You're happily filing paperwork away in the evidence room when Anderson sneaks up behind you, grinning. “Stella” _First name terms_ you think. _Prick._ “Needs your assistance on a job.”

“Can't she take Danni?”

He looks at you as if you've got two heads. “That's not really what you say to a DSI when they need you.”

“It's just I'm in the middle of filing, Sir.”

He snorts. “I'm sure if you're that attached to it the evidence department will let you carry on when you get back.”

You hate him. You want to glare at him but know you can't, so you say nothing, grimace into the filing cabinet and sulk down to the car.

She's there, as expected sat with her feet crossed across the dashboard. You don't talk as you get in. You don't talk as you start the car, or as you buckle up. You don't make a comment on her removing her feet so slowly, showing her whole leg in the process. You don't look at her when she glances at you. You just drive.

You reach the destination and you haven't spoken. She goes to get out the car but stops herself to glance over her shoulder. You sit, eyes straight forward. Puzzlement written all over her expression, she says nothing and slips out.

You throw your head back and breathe. You know it's only a temporary reprieve, she'll be back shortly with the small bag of evidence you've come to pick up, but for the first time in half an hour you feel like some of the tension is relaxing from your shoulders.

Danni's text: _Hows it going? Soz didn't mean to curse u earlier!_

You quickly fire back: _Awful. We've not spoken. I've not tried._

It's as you're slipping your phone back into your pocket that you catch a flash of blonde and realise she's on the way back already. Less than five minutes to take a breath before you've got another half hour of silent tension. Great. You turn the radio up as she's getting in and she glances at it, as if to ask whether it's necessary but stops. She throws the evidence bag onto the top of the dashboard and gently slips off her coat. You don't move until she's belted up. It's not even that you don't like her at the moment, but with all the animosity between you you'd rather not kill her.

It's not until you're halfway back to base that she clears her throat.

“If there's a problem, I'd rather speak about it.”

“There's no problem.” You fire back.

“You've not spoken to me throughout the journey. You didn't speak to me earlier. You've just about made eye contact with me all day.” She drawls out the last sentence, as if that's going to have you caving over the wheel begging her to shag you instead of Anderson.

“I could say the same to you. You could barely look at me earlier, but then maybe that's because you spent the night fucking my boss.”

It's out there with more venom that you first intended but she doesn't flinch. She doesn't even blink. She just sits, eyes boring through the windscreen.

“Any feelings you have for Tom, you should really address.”

Your mouth falls open. _First name terms_. You yank your head around at G Force speeds.

“I _don't_ have feelings for DS Anderson.”

She meets your eye.

“Then what's the problem?”

You force your eyes back to the road, not wanting to end up dead in a ditch somewhere with your last ever breath on earth being one of frustration.

“The _problem_ is that you're supposed to be the DCI! He's supposed to be your DS! Just incase you'd forgotten, you're both supposed to be solving a case with a man that also enjoys fucking women but instead of kissing them goodbye, likes to asphyxiate them, dress them up, clean them and then put them in promiscuous positions. I'll remind you that he's still on the loose, currently holding a woman that you know well but rather than dedicate your energy to saving innocent lives it seems you'd rather spend your time fucking your new coworker!”

Jesus. You take a long breath because apparently your lungs are actually burning. Your blood is boiling and you have no idea where any of that came from. You blink because it almost feels like you're coming round from being unconscious for hours and you realise that what you've said you can't take back.

Very calmly and evenly she says “I'll remind you that I'm still your DCI.”

“Nice to see you've washed over my point.”

“I accept your point. Your opinion is your own.”

“My opinion?!”

“You obviously don't approve.”

“No! I don't bloody _approve_ because he's supposed to be your colleague, not a random one night stand!”

She doesn't say anything else. You pull up at the station and yank the brakes on. She turns to you just before she gets out the car and simply says, “You really need to address your emotions.”  
You gape at her and as she shuts the door, fading into the bustle of the station, you slam your head forward on the horn, cursing her very existence.

 

* * *

Fuck Stella Gibson is your first thought of the evening. It's also your second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh thanks to Danni bringing out a constant supply of shots (“ _What it's Friday! And it's been a long day. Shot_?”). You stumble back to the hotel well after hours, both of you supporting each other and you tell Danni you'll drop her at her room. That's right next to _her_ room. But you won't go in or knock or make a scene. You'll just drop her and go.

You're leant on the wall, watching Danni finally stumble into her room after the fourteenth time of trying to get the card in the reader (“ _Is this thing moving?_ ”) when you have a scary thought: You _could_ go in there.

The door shuts after many many goodnights and declarations of favouritism and you find yourself slumping into _her_ door. And you find yourself knocking. Loudly.

Eventually the door shrugs open and she's there, looking angelic. Small nightgown wrapped around herself, hair mussed and sleep ridden. She looks at you in utter confusion, but doesn't say anything, just stands aside to let you past.

You stumble in and grip the cabinet because it's the only chance of keeping yourself upright. She floats into the room, crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow in your direction.

“Fuck you” You start with because eloquence is best. She doesn't say anything and so you continue because apparently in your drunken state her silence is a good indication you should keep talking to fill it. “After you slept with him... In the morgue you couldn't” You sway “You couldn't even look at me. Why?”

She blinks and very slowly and gently says “For the same reason you went off on an aggressive essay in the car.”

The words spin around in your head and you're confused because you don't know why you went off on an _aggressive essay._ You don't know why she can't look at you sometimes, why she can't stop looking at you other times. You don't know why she plays games, why she speaks to you differently. You don't understand her secret talks with Reed, you don't understand anything.

“I don't know.”

“Yes you do.” She says. “Perhaps if you hadn't gone on another night with my PC, you'd be slightly clearer.”

You stand blinking, completely lost when all of a sudden you find she's taking steps toward you and the massive gap between you has suddenly closed. She's so close that you can smell the fresh linen of her nightgown, the apple in her hair, the faint tinge of jasmine left on her skin. It's hypnotic, infatuating and she's looking at you in a way you've never seen before.

“Because it should have been you.” She purrs, voice lower, silkier, softer than you've heard.

Someone may as well have hit you around the back of the head with a hammer because it's right in front of you. The realisation of why you snapped in the car, why you wanted to shove Anderson in a fridge, why your stomach turns and you think, in your inebriated state, that she's saying the same.

But it's too much. You won't just be another mark on her bedpost, another conquest before she's onto the next one, before she picks up what she started with Reed. You're worth more than that, your career is worth more than a rumour that you ended up in bed with the infamous Stella Gibson.

So you step back. The distance between you opens in a rush of cold air and it's her turn for her face to morph into one of confusion.

“I won't be another night to you.” You find yourself saying, your voice the most stable it's been all night, strength and authority running through. “Goodnight ma'am.”

You let go of the cabinet, brush your shoulder past hers on your way to grip the wall. You grip door frames, the wardrobe, the alarm before you find the door handle and in your last show of strength you grip it and pull, leaving her stood, gaping at the empty space where you were without looking back.

 

///

 

 


	2. Blood Red Lips like Soft Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first you guys are the realist.  
> I'll stop.  
> But seriously, thanks for all the love and the comments. I never would have imagined the reaction to be that positive, so, you blow me away.
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry it's now a 35k beast. *Shifty eyes* *Whispers* I'm not.

You don't talk to anybody about that night. You decide when you're hunched over the cold pearl of the porcelain bowl that everything leaving the contents of your stomach and being flushed into oblivion is how you're going to think about that night, about how she looked, about what she said.

_It should have been you_ .

For nights afterward you'd been on edge entering your room, your inner optimist still expecting to walk in and find her draped over your bed, softness embedded into usually carved marble features, a _sorry_ tumbling from scarlet lips. Instead you avoid each other as subtly as possible. She takes Danni everywhere, leaving Danni questioning why she's suddenly the favourite again but you shrug and smile. Whenever you watch them leave your face locks back into a grimace.

Anderson says nothing else to suggest that there's been a repeat performance of his night with her but when you hear that her and PC Glen Martin looked far too close in the bar one Wednesday evening, it reaffirms your niggling doubt that you'd made the right choice. All you were was just another night, another conquest, another body to relieve the pressure of her job. People would have talked about  it , as they talk about her and everyone, with awe and arousal and you would have been branded wherever you went. People would have never taken you seriously, the same questions would always have been asked,  _what was she like, was she good, active, noisy, quiet, involved, distant, did she scratch, did she bite, is she reserved, is she crazy_ ?

You didn't want that. You wanted her,  but you're not ready for the baggage that c omes with  that, with  her, with who she is and what she does  and you're not sure if you ever will be.

 

It's one dreary Tuesday when the emergency call to arrest Paul Spector comes through. It's all a bit quick, first it's just Danni and another PC responding to an emergency call about gunfire and then all of a sudden the shout goes up that Spector is one of the men involved and that this is it, this is the time to move.

It all happens so quickly, a blur of panic and sirens and then you're waiting in the vehicle listening to the radio, _Ben_ _e_ _detto girl in custody, Burns on his way to main scene, Sally Ann arrested, one of our officers hit in fire, emergency ambulance needed._

Ice rushes through your stomach when you realise that can only be either Danni or the PC and seeing as it was a male voice over the radio, you're assuming it's the first and you curse her for being so bloody typical. Then the madness extenuates, you become desperate ticking down the minutes, the seconds until you're at the scene, until you can bundle out of the back of the van, all the while silently bargaining with the forces above that if she's okay you promise to give more to charity because there is no way she's allowed to leave you now, she's your only compatriot throughout all of the mad emotionally exhausting chaos.

You smash out of the van the minute the brakes are slammed on, half of your brain focusing on snapping into your position, the rest on finding Danni.

Luckily the secondary tape that you're posted at overlooks the scene with the ambulance and relief washes through you at the sight of not only Danni sat up, a paramedic only gently pushing her fingers but her voice lambasting her injury.

“No I didn't get hit, no. No I jumped and bashed my shoulder. So no. Not hit. Okay? _Okay._ ”

You have to look the other way otherwise you know that you'd be bent over laughing out of nothing more than sheer relief and there is no doubt in your mind that eventually that would turn into dry heaving Shakespearean sobs because that's the way your emotions swing nowadays.

You turn and in the distance spy a white suited figure heading toward you and that straightens you up straight away. It would be the pathologist you can only just about say a sentence to. You wonder if she knows about that night. You wonder if she did the same thing if Stella tried to coax her into her bed. You wonder if she feels empathy for you, if she feels annoyance. You wonder if she's even allowed to talk to you. You decide however you're going to prove yourself as the bigger person, because so far the forces that be have stuck to their side of the bargain and so if she is reporting back, she can report back that actually you're a wonderful person. 

As she draws closer you hold the tape up for her and offer a friendly greeting.

“Thanks” She says, warm but unsure eyes meeting yours as she passes through. She pauses as you lower the tape back down and she turns to look at you, eyes scanning your face but her name is yelled from the other side of the carpark and so with a sigh and a stifled smile, she leaves.

You watch her go, your face completely confused and turn back to Danni, who is now signalling a gentle thumbs up at you from across the alleyway. You manage to grin and offer two back, all the while the only image in your mind that of Reed and the troubling look on her face.

 

That becomes your only exciting encounter of the day. You hear that Anderson got to arrest Spector and you've got nothing against that but it still leaves you wondering why he got the privilege, although you are relieved that you didn't have to deal with more tedious hyena smiling.

The mood is one of great celebration when you get back to the control room, Glen sat with his feet up declaring it a “ _successful day at the office_ ” and a general sense of relax. There's still tension, knowing he's downstairs, knowing you all haven't done enough yet but it's more relaxing than knowing he's out there and not knowing whose house he's eyeing up, whose daughter he's mistreating next.

A call comes through that Sally Ann needs escorting to the cell and you offer yourself up. You feel useless just loitering around an office, knowing that all your fellow colleagues, superior and uniformed are all up and will be up for a while yet in interviews and paperwork and case studies.

By the time you get back the office has turned into an all out sleepover. Napping officers are everywhere, draped back in their chairs, slumped onto desks. You're not tired, the adrenaline is still rushing through you and so you take a seat on one of the tables, leaning your back against cold wall. You shut your eyes to try and digest the day when you hear the door gently sweep open and in she glides, looking completely fresh despite being up for more than eighteen hours. You haven't seen her properly for a week and the sight is achingly similar to what the addiction must be to the addict. As she scopes out the room, you stand, rigorous professional duty overthrowing your limbs and when her eyes settle on you she offers a bemused smile, prowling her way over.

“You can sit down.”

“You don't need anything ma'am?”

An eyebrow raise. You know why. You dismiss it.

“No... What time is it?”

“Three am.”

“You've not gone home.” A question embedded in a statement. 

You gesture around the room. “None of them have, so I felt it was only right to stay.”

She smiles fondly at the nine, loyal, sleeping figures and perches on the end of the table nearest you.

“Yes. I admire them a lot.”

A moment of silence settles over you and she runs her hands through her hair, head thrown right back. You don't know what to say, everything feeling awkward and cliché.

“Are you okay?”

She sits up. “I think so.”

“You've done it.” You smile. “You said you were going to get him and you have.”

A sad smile only greets yours. “It's not over until we've found Rose.”

“We'll find her. We're halfway there.”

“I hope for all our sakes that's true.”

You let a moment of reflection settle between you before you speak again.

“Have you heard from Danni?”

“She's fine. Resting in her room, no doubt with some form of alcohol.”

You grin. You miss her already.

“Sounds like her.”

“I was surprised you weren't with her.”

“Probably wise we both take a break from the bar for a bit.”

She smiles, but the look behind her eyes has changed.

“Sensible idea.”

The atmosphere switches. All of a sudden it's stuffy and oppressing and all the memories are flashing through your head at double speed.

“Sorry.” You say, because you should apologise. Telling a DSI to “ _fuck off_ ” probably wasn't a wise move, even if they have been playing frustrating games with you for weeks.

She shakes her head. “It's forgotten.”

“Is it?”

_It should have been you_ .

There's a pause before she replies.

“Yes.”

And you'd believe it, if it wasn't for eyes not meeting yours and then her own words floating back through to you.

_Our eyes are windows to our soul_.

* * *

After that night things do become slightly easier between the two of you. You no longer have to point blank avoid each other in a room, instead offering friendly smiles and conversation. Eye contact is on the up with you no longer having to pretend she's invisible either so you think you might be getting there. Things aren't the _same_ , whatever the _same_ was but you don't think about that. You focus on the now.

Things are apparently going so well between you that due to Danni still being signed off for another forty eight hours, Stella decides she's going to need another PC.

You don't think it's going to particularly affect you as you're leant on one of the desks in the evidence room awaiting instruction from Anderson, when you spot a familiar figure flitting in your direction. At first, you decide that you'll keep your eyes locked on the board, because you don't want to appear too eager to know why she's here and nonchalance is best. It's not until the waft of the finest smell of linen and jasmine caresses your nose that you realise it's you she's after and you know what's coming before she's even opened her mouth.

“Danni's still off for another forty eight hours” She says, matter of factly, hiding what you think is a twinge of apprehension. “I need a PC. Where we're going I'd like a familiar one.”

You look up and meet her eyes. “So in other words, I'm taking Danni's job because you know me and can't be arsed with getting to know anybody else.”

“Because I trust you.” 

She says it so flat and so sincere that it knocks you backward. You nod, straighten your shoulders and accept the offer.

 

Your first job is the hospital to see Annie Brawley. Stella explains to you in the car that you'll be guarding the door to her room while she's inside. This means you can be fully armed. You attempt to smother down your inner child, reminding yourself that you are twenty five and not the singular latter.

As first jobs go it's fairly easy. You get to go through all doors first and the nurses are in awe as you head through clearing hospital crowds with both of your hands near your holster. It helps that Stella is a head shorter than you too because you really feel a bit like a marvel comic hero.

Once she's inside and settled you turn and face the wall, regularly checking both ends of the corridor. What you hadn't encountered for was that plain clothed surveillance are also doing the same, disguised as visitors and on one occasion, a patient. You only know this because a few of them you recognise from when they're disguised as businessmen and women in the bar and also because they all wink at you the first time they pass you.

After half an hour Stella's done and so you get to reenact your superhero act from earlier as she follows behind you. You even hold the car door open. You think you're getting more into this than you should.

You drop into the drivers seat and she instructs that Spector's house is next on the list. You nod and pull away and she leaves a few moments of comfortable silence before she speaks.

“You quite suit the protective stance.”

Heavy words rest on a very fragile bridge. You're not sure how many planks of wood you've managed to lay down over the week but it's definitely not enough to support whatever she's now trying to do.

Sharply you simply reply, “Thanks.”

She doesn't say anything else after that and her expression is unreadable as she turns back to the window. You'd almost feel guilty for shutting her down so quickly but you still hold the memories of that night, the memories of the mortuary, the memories of her in the car so nonchalant and then the destructive memory of her, right in front of you, willing you to take her and you, knowing you couldn't.

_It should have been you._

_I won't be another night to you._

She still doesn't speak as you pull up to the Spector house and you decide that that's fine, that if she's going to revert back to silence you've both done that for a good two weeks anyway so it's no skin off of your nose.

Uniformed police greet her and allow her access and you see her gesture in your direction to inform them she already has a guard. You adapt much the same pose you did at the hospital outside the front door, both thumbs hooked under your bulletproof vest.

Barely five minutes go past before she's back out and you're escorting her back down the path. As she slides into the front seat and you the drivers you find yourself having to ask.

“Why so quick?”

“Only a drop in. See how things are going. Next it's the beauty spot.”

“Is that a drop in?”

“I'm not sure.”

 

The viewpoint is the one you would say you had been dreading the most. When you pull up, as expected most of the police security is nowhere in sight, all having packed up a few days ago. That leaves just you on a wooded mud path potentially facing sudden death by a ramming car, ambush out of the nearby dense woodland or any number of wild animal attacks.

You escort Stella up the steep path, waiting until she's safely inside the lone police tent before you make your way back down to your new, terrifying watch point.

The fact that it's a windy day doesn't help at all, every rustle of the leaves and breaking of twigs fraying your nerves just a little more. At one point you hear a car rev in the valley below and your heart rate spikes to dangerous beats, hand going straight to your holster, trembling fingers wrapping themselves safely around the end of a cold gun. There are some walkers a while later although they look innocent enough and more terrified of you and the police presence behind you than anything so they turn around quite quickly. You eye them with suspicion because you can't help it, you're trained to think any member of the public is either dodgy, someone working with Paul Spector, Spector himself or plain clothed surveillance. You've realised you can't even go into a coffee shop without scoping out who's in the room first.

Luckily these musings serve to keep you occupied for what you feel must have been half an hour before familiar dulcet tones float through the wind into your ears. You never thought you'd be relieved to see her, but you are because she means the station and that means warmth and no creepy woodland.

You watch her bite down a smile as you signal to the other officer and lead the way, hand automatically out to the side of you at an angle incase you need to grab her and throw her behind you at any point.

Once you're safely back to the car she's still avoiding your eye but she's still smirking and you're not sure if that was because her _meeting_ , whatever that was, went well, because she's found another target, or because she thinks you're a moron for taking the job so seriously. You're pretty sure Danni does, although you're also pretty sure Danni could probably outrun, out beat or outdo anybody that even looks like they're going to attack her with least amount of effort required. Alternatively, you figure, she could probably talk them to death.

You're on the way back to the station at last and she's _still_ smirking so you decide to have it out.

“You alright ma'am?”

“Hm?”

“You haven't stopped smiling.”

It sounds pathetic to your own ears. She only smiles more.

“Is that a crime?”

“No.”

“Is it so rare for me to smile?”

“No.”

She floats her gaze back out the window, leans back in the seat and crosses her feet across the dashboard. You attempt to not flinch.

“I had no reason for going up to the shed, it was an endurance test.”

“ _An endurance test_?” You repeat exasperated, so shocked you nearly swerve off the road.

“That was your first time guarding a superior alone. I figured the experience would be useful.”

_Or_ you ponder, _heavy revenge because you didn't bed her_.

“ _Thanks_.”

“Do you want to progress in this career?”

You're not sure whether that's a threat.

“I do, yeah.”

“Good.” She says, smile flicking over her face. “You should always have ambition. I started where you were. So did Burns. Keep at it.”

Carefully you reply, “Thanks, I will.”

This time you meet her eye contact and find yourself returning her smile. She says nothing else, instead lulls her head back into the headrest and closes her eyes.

* * *

You're traipsing back from another long mental emotional and physically demanding day when you bump into her again. Tonight all you want to do is have a soothing bath, watch something funny and go to bed. But then you remember: Most of, if not all of the stars are twinkling against you.

As you make your way through the reception, an expensive blazer covered arm brushes past yours and you'd know the material, you'd know the following smell, the pace of the footsteps, the swagger anywhere.

But she hasn't stopped to talk to you, so you swing round after her out of curiosity. She's got car keys dangling off the end of a manicured finger and she's heading for what you assume is her BMW parked directly outside the entrance. It takes you a second before you realise there are no plain clothed officers following her, nor are there any uniformed officers either.

“Ma'am” You shout, because you're sure she's not allowed anywhere without a swarm of security.

She halts, but it's not in appreciation. By the tension that has just crept into her shoulders, it's annoyance. She sighs and languidly turns around, propping an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“Where are you going?”

You never thought you'd see Stella Gibson resemble a child that's just been caught nicking food it shouldn't have, but in front of your eyes that's what she morphs into. Her shoulders drop and she's suddenly staring at the marble flooring like it's the most interesting thing she's seen.

“Out.”

She scuffs her shoe on the floor.

“Out where?”

Throws her head back, fixes you with a steely glare.

“For a drive. I need to think.”

“You know the rules, you can't go alone.”

“For fucks sake!” She whinges. Actually whinges. Like a teenager. “He's in custody!”

“He was working with an innocent on-first-appearance child. We don't know who else is out there.” You shouldn't. You're knackered, emotionally, mentally, physically drained, there's a bath that's calling your name and it's warm and soft and you _need_ it. But you have to. “I'll accompany you.”

She blinks. Sighs heavily and throws you the keys.

“You can drive.”

 

You don't know if you're doing it right, just driving along the main stretch of motorway. It's quiet and the lights sing a warm orange and you suppose, in some way you can see why she wanted to do this. It's remarkably soothing, just gliding along, piercing through the darkness, gentle light melting across the car.

Not long after you'd set off she'd shrugged her blazer off and you'd very subtly noticed, dropped a few buttons. Her bare feet are now back where they always are, lain across the dashboard, killer heels shoved under the glove box. You can barely look at the road because you have to admit, in this light, in this moment she looks beautiful, like some kind of Renaissance painting.   
Her hair is fanned around her face, the fierce moon in a starry blanketed night sky giving it a light glowing sensation. Her eyes are closed, surprisingly and her head is thrown back in such comfort that you can see her neck muscles supporting it with relaxed, toned lines. Her collarbone is sharp and demanding your attention and it's in this position you can appreciate her whole figure, curves that dip lightly and highly toned, thin legs that look softer in those trousers, so soft that you imagine if you ran your hands along them your fingertips would glide past knee, thigh... You imagine if you used your mouth it would have the same effect.

And then you banish that thought because you had that chance and you had your reasons for why you couldn't take it and that's what's led you to where you are now.

“You didn't have to come” She breathes, fatigue dripping into every syllable.

You begin to wonder whether this is what she does to fall asleep now, drive until she's so exhausted by the time she's back she's knocked herself out, all so she can just stop _thinking_ and you're beginning to know that feeling well.

“You're not allowed to go alone ma'am. I'm only doing my duty.”

“Don't.”

“Don't...?!”

“ _Ma'am_. Please. I know it's to put some... _Distance_ between us” She turns her head, tired, yet soft, gentle, warm eyes drinking you in. “But not tonight.”

You nod. You understand, the ambience is too warm and you know she's looking for compassion. A human to show another human acceptance, understanding. Proof there is still good in the world.

“Is this what you do to sleep nowadays?” You find yourself asking.

“No” She answers, eyes rolling back in her head to the ceiling. “I just needed to be away tonight.”

“I know how that feels.”

“Yes” She muses, turning her head again to look at you, eyes piercing right through you. “I suppose you do.”

You allow the comfortable silence to drape back over you both, a soothing blanket. You drive for a little longer before you turn off and swing around, ready to take the motorway back. It's creeping on midnight now and you know that you've both got early starts in the morning. It's not until you glance across at her that you realise there's a soft rise and fall of her chest, her eyes are closed and her head is limp in the headrest.

You find yourself smiling, although you're not sure why. She looks so much younger asleep and you always thought that that saying was cliché, but the lines and the worry and the stress have slunk out of her face and have left her with what you assume was the original canvas.

And she's breathtaking. Enough to make your jaw drop. Enough to make you stop thinking about why you shouldn't and start thinking about why you didn't.

You drive for what feels like ten minutes in restful silence before you realise goosebumps are starting to form on cold skin. With a sigh, you pull into the hard shoulder and then very carefully, as gently as you can, drape her blazer across her. Under the heat of it she seems to creep deeper into the seat, searching out warmth and with a badly suppressed smile you turn back to the road.

Even when you've pulled up to the hotel and managed to park after three attempts and a fair bit of reversing she's still asleep and it leaves you with a new problem. You briefly entertain the idea that you could fireman’s lift her out the seat and up to bed but you're not sure how that would look in front of your colleagues and so you decide against it.

It's a shame to wake her, but you have to so, as gently as you can you shake her shoulder. “Stella” you recite a few times before groggy eyes draw themselves open, blinking furiously. She looks around, brain trying to configure where she is and then, slamming her head back groans.

“How long was I asleep for?”

“I'd say an hour.”

She stretches, back curling in on itself, arms thrown wide.

“I must have been terrible company.”

“Not at all” You grin. “I just hope you don't fall asleep every time you do this.”

She jostles the blazer off of her, swinging it in a fluid motion around her shoulders and you send a little prayer somewhere that she hasn't noticed it was you that put it over her in the first place.

“You'll have to come with me more often to make sure.”

Gently she turns her head, languid eyes locking onto yours. The atmosphere hangs over you and you want to give in, to agree, to say you will but you can't so with a deep, regrettable breath you opt for safety. Again.

“I'll walk you to your room ma'am.”

* * *

Having Paul Spector in the station makes everyone, as expected, antsy. The relaxed celebratory atmosphere of a few days ago has passed like an autumn mist, instead a thick smog of anxiety has now settled over the evidence room, the corridors, the cells as everyone tries to put together the strongest case possible to prosecutors.

In the space of a few days Spector is charged with two more murders, Benedetto is charged with assisting an offender and conspiracy to commit crime and Sally Ann is still sat downstairs as everyone tries to decide whether or not she lied with any intention of malice.

It's a blustery Monday night when Burns stalks into the room looking as if he's been sleeping in a hedge for the past few days. Weary eyes scan the environment but he doesn't find who he's looking for and so, mainly because you're the only person that's noticed he's there, he addresses you instead.

“Where's DSI Gibson?”

“Downstairs monitoring one of the interviews, Sir.”

“Go and get her for me would you? We need to run over the press conference in the morning.”

You nod and agree but inside ice has just permeated your lungs.

You _hate_ downstairs. You especially hate where the interview and monitoring rooms are because it's dark, desolate and eerie. Everything's metal, so as you make your way along the digestive system of the station, your footprints clang off of walls and ceilings and the hairs on the back of your neck stand to full attention.

As hurriedly as possible you make your way past one, two, three, four interview rooms all with lights on until you take the small L that leads to where the monitoring rooms are located.

You key in the code and do a last sweep over your shoulder before climbing the small flight of stairs.

You turn the small corner and there she is in the first one, headphones completely covering her ears, a look of pure concentration. She's making notes, although you're not sure why but every so often she stops to bite the end of her pen. You don't think you've ever seen her look so focused, so completely and utterly lost in her thoughts but apparently you're wrong.

“What do you need?”

You jump, not expecting her to have heard or sensed you at all. Sluggishly she takes off the headphones and turns around to face you.

“Burns wants you ma'am, it's to go over the press conference for tomorrow morning.”

She groans, but you're not looking at her, you're looking straight past her at the bluey screen revealing a grained image of Spector and Anderson, who is surprisingly unflinching in Spector's oddly relaxed pose: both feet on the table and swinging on his chair.

She follows your eyesight and with a twinkle of amusement in her eye, smiles.

“Come here.”

You blink, unsure what she's after when you realise she's pulling the chair from the opposite end of the room next to her and gesturing for you to sit.

You move across the room in two unsteady strides, nervously perching on the end of the cushioned seat as she hands you the right side of the headphones. You press your ear to it and she does the same the other end but she's now so close that strands of your hair are intertwined with electric blonde and the familiar intoxicating mix of jasmine, lily, freshly washed and pressed linen, silk mixed with the faintest hint of apple starts to slink into your senses, making you ever so slightly drowsy.

You blink through it, attempting to throw your concentration into listening to Anderson's pressing questioning.

“Paul, I really think if I was charged with three murders and I hadn't done them I would have a lot more to say.”

Spector says nothing, tilts his head at a right angle and then a left, eyeing Anderson up like a primate would do to a human. It's unnerving, but again Anderson doesn't flinch. You're lost in temporary admiration when a soft, gentle voice, like honey dripping from a spoon talks and it's so low it sidles through each and every one of your nerves.

“He's playing on mental illness” She breathes, as you realise she's speaking softly so that you can still listen to the scene playing out in front of you. “He's imitating Tom and acting more like an animal than a human so that when in court his defence will attempt to clear him on the grounds of severe mental instability.”

She pauses briefly, allowing for that to sink in before she continues.

“There will be a call for psychiatric testing because he hasn't acted like a _s_ _ane_ human being throughout questioning. He's not called for a solicitor and he's not shown anxiety or panic, unlike Sally Ann and the Benedetto girl did. In the eyes of the court that's unusual behaviour.”

Then she sighs. “And of course having worked in near enough a psychiatric career, he'll know all the tests they will run and all the signs they will hunt for and he will give them the answers they seek because when presented in front of a judge, if found guilty the sentencing is either less, or his accommodation becomes the likes of a mental institution rather than an oppressing prison.”

It takes you a minute before you realise she's stopped talking, the hypnosis of her voice lulling your brain and your body into a sense of full relaxation. You sit up a little straighter and clear your throat, nodding eagerly.

“Surely the prosecution can counteract the defence by saying that he would have had experience so would know how to pretend?”

She's turned to face you now and you're so close you feel yourself stop breathing.

“They can, but their argument has to be stronger and supported by weightier evidence.” She pauses and with a teasing smile floats her eyes briefly down to your lips. “So I hope you're watching and learning.”

The temperature in the room surges from cold to boiling point in a matter of seconds. Your mouth turns dry.

You nod “The teaching isn't bad I suppose.”

She raises an eyebrow. “If you have any feedback?”

You smile and in a flash of bravery scan your eyes over her face, drinking in every inch, every line, every freckle, every blemish. She doesn't wilt under your gaze, she sits up straighter, slips the headphones out of your hands and lays them on the table.

She's still in control.

_I'm looking for someone to take me out of it._

“You'll be the first to know.”

You force your spine back into alignment, the movement sweeping you up and away from an entrancing gaze. She blinks, but behind her eyes there's a jolt of recognition as she scans yours, trying to figure out your movement, your endgame.

You stand and offer her help up, but she declines, straightening herself back out, brushing off the moment and then you turn, hidden smile painted over your face as you lead her to Burns.

* * *

It's a drowsy Thursday afternoon when you hear that Paul Spector has finally broken his silence. You're relieved at first, finally realising that this could be him cracking under the strain of constant questioning and broken sleep, but your heart drops to your stomach when Danni informs you he's only spoken to tell DC McNally that he won't speak to anybody but Stella.

“Muppet” You retort “He's going to have one hell of a wait.”

But it's Danni's troublesome face that stops your jest abruptly, that makes ice slither through your stomach.

“Please tell me she's not.”

And then Danni had hung her head and your blood had boiled off of the thermometer and the minute Danni was dispatched for guard and you were left alone you were hunting her out.

So far you've tried her room, her office, the bar, her car, all her usual hiding places in the station and in the hotel and you've found no joy, until it had hit you that there was one place you hadn't tried.

You floor it to the hospital, uncaring if you're supposed to be on a job, if you're supposed to be guarding Anderson, if you're supposed to be doing anything but finding Stella Gibson and shaking the living daylights out of her.

You pull up and clamber out of the car in one breath, rushing through the corridors at cartoon character speed, before you finally turn into familiar double doors. You're jogging across the gallery when you nearly collide with a very bemused Professor Reed, just coming around the corner from her office.

“Is Stella with you?” You pant. You don't care what she's thinking, or what she's going to do, you just need an answer.

“In my office” She replies warmly, no judgement in her look. She offers you another smile and brushes past. You don't have time to consider why she's _always_ smiling at you.

You wheel around the corner and come face to face with her, legs tucked in under herself, pages of scrawled italic notes open in her lap, pen by her hand, steaming cup of something by her side. She looks up instantly at your arrival, face contorting into one of concern.

“What is it? Is everything okay?”

“You can't go in there with him.” You heave, bent over double now, rustic door frame supporting your full weight.

She looks at you as if you're drunk and speaking Arabic. Her eyebrows raise and furrow, all hint of concern long washed away.

“I'm sorry?”

You straighten yourself up. “With Spector. I know he's asked for you, I know you're going to do it but you _can't._ ”

Tired grey eyes give away her recognition. She sighs, body almost drooping in on itself.

“He's asked for me. I don't have much of a choice.”

“You gave the arrest to Anderson so that he didn't have to see you, so that he didn't have to use what he read in your journal against you, so that you didn't jeopardise his arrest, the case. That was really fucking clever! What you're about to do is really not.”

She blinks and when she speaks her voice is much firmer, authority weaving its way through every word.

“Every single hour is another hour that determines whether I find Rose dead or alive. Every single hour determines whether a husband has a wife, whether two young children have a mother. This isn't about me anymore. This is about it being over.”

Her eyes lock onto you, like missiles would lock onto their target and there's such fierce emotion burning through that you feel your spine wilt under her gaze.

You open and shut your mouth, slump against the door. A moment passes.

“ _Thanks for the concern, but I'm fine._ ”

You recognise your own words from months back, but they're gnarled, twisted and thrown back at you in the form of a dagger straight to the ribs. You raise your eyebrows.

“Excuse me for caring about your safety and welfare.”

She shakes her head. It's not out of anything but annoyance. You bristle.

“You should be guarding Tom.”

“ _Tom_ doesn't need my protection.”

“And I do?!” She snarls, eyes suddenly snapping to yours, a raging fire in her gaze. “Why does everyone insist on being my protector?”

“Because you're about to put yourself in front of a psychopath that broke into your room, subsequently read your journal and now knows most of your inner thoughts, feelings, worries and weaknesses and who is currently still holding a woman you know well!”

“The interview will be monitored.” She deadpans. “Nothing untoward will happen.”

“Apart from he could recite some of his favourite lines from your journal and in turn mortify you in front of your colleagues and superiors.”

“If that's all I have to currently worry about, I'll count myself lucky.”

You meet genuine, honest eyes and her statement catches you off guard. You suppose it's true that when compared to some other lives it does look minuscule but that's not how it feels. Not to you and you're _still_ scared of unwrapping why that is.

Another moment of silence passes over you and for a while all that can be heard is the soothing ticking of the clock on Reed's desk.

“I do appreciate your concern.”

“I'm just doing my job.”

She whips her head around and smiles, but it's not warm or friendly, it's sarcastic and cold. “I'll assume I've got more to come after you then, hm? All saying the exact same thing?”

You refrain from cursing out loud. She smiles harder at your obvious floundering.

“I suppose now you're going to tell me everyone can have different levels of commitment to their work.”

You watch as some of the tension dissipates from her shoulders, a thin blanket of confidence wrapping itself back around her. She folds her arms and looks at you with one eyebrow raised, eyes alight with amusement. You tear yourself away from her gaze because otherwise you feel like a child adrift at sea, unable to battle against the unrelenting tide.

“No.” You simply reply, eyes on your boots.

She sighs. “If you're that concerned I'm sure you can find a way to be near the monitoring booths in the morning.”

Abrasively you shake your head. “That's not something I want to watch.”

She pauses. “It would be good experience.”

“I'll pass.”

Another tension carpeted silence wafts into the room, ten tonne words balancing on gentle beams.

“You really should be in the vicinity of the station.”

You nod, finally meeting surprisingly warm eyes.

“Do you need a lift back?”

“No” She shakes her head softly. “I'm staying here overnight. I need peace and quiet.”

You ignore the clench in your stomach, the mantra of: staying here, in Reed's office, perhaps with Reed, _overnight_.

In spite of yourself, you joke. “I suppose there's no better place for that than a mortuary.”

She laughs, so genuinely that her eyes crinkle at the sides and you realise it's the first time you've ever seen the occurrence.

“Precisely.”

“I'll see you in the morning ma'am.”

She nods and then, just as you're heading out the door, “Thank you.”

* * *

Tonight you're revelling in doing your own thing. Since you bumped into Danni in the lift all that time ago your free nights have never been your own and in one sense that isn't a bad thing at all, but in another sometimes you just like to take yourself out of the world, in a warm, comforting bath and _breathe_.

It's gone midnight and you're still up, old t shirt and jogging bottoms keeping you snug as the temperature dips outside the window. You're engrossed in one of your favourite comedies, you've nearly eaten a whole box of celebrations to yourself and you're feeling the most relaxed you've ever been since you started this job... And then your phone buzzes.

At first you think it's Danni and so rolling your eyes you reach over. It's the familiar unknown number. You frown.

_I need company. Are you free?_

You re-read the message several times. There's no way you're leaving your nest of happiness tonight and so, deciding that by not replying she'll figure you're asleep, you go to put the phone back down. When it buzzes again.

_I'm outside. Parked. Headlights out._

You throw your head back and swear loudly. You could leave her out there. But you can't. There's no telling how long she'd sit there for, or if she'd start hunting you out.

Languidly and frustratedly you switch everything off and slip into a thick hoody. You stalk past uniformed police who offer you a frown at your late night slip off but you shake your head and slink past. The lift is cold and unwelcoming and feels like it's taking years, and by the time you're striding out across chilled marble your mood has dissipated into something dark enough to match the night sky.

You see her instantly, inner light in the car lighting up her face and she looks older from here, tired and worn down. She doesn't blink at your arrival, she doesn't even move as you slip in beside her and shut the door.

“How was the interview?”

She keeps her focus straight ahead. Barely reacts.

“Fine. Nothing happened that I wasn't anticipating.”

You nod, slowly. You'd press further but it's a closed response and it's obvious from her body language, from her being here that she doesn't want to talk about it. You think a part of you already knows what she wants to do.

“It's the middle of the night.” You state. As if she doesn't know that already. As if she cares.

She moves her head to look at you, to fully drink you in, eyes scanning every single inch of your face but you don't wilt, you just sit there, back straight, frustration etched in your pores. She hasn't noticed that though because now she's moving so much closer to you and the gap between you has gone. You're not sure when that happened, the same way you're not sure when her hand starting cupping your cheek, gentle thumb running strokes across the underside of your jaw.

Unbeknown to you, you've stopped breathing.

She looks you over one last time, as if she's asking you for permission, as if she's letting you see the script and you think you know how this scene ends. You already know why she's here.

And then she leans in and the world around you becomes a screaming colour, but you don't stop it. You can't. You're too tired, you're too relaxed, she's caught you at a good moment and she must sense that because tender lips are starting to press quite forcefully against yours and the last thing you think is _fuck it_ as you surge forward, both hands around her face, forcing her back into her seat. You're the first one to deepen the kiss, to show your annoyance, not just at tonight at all of it, at how she is, at _who_ she is, at what she does, at the fiasco with Anderson, with Glen, with Reed, with all of them and she willingly opens under you, the slightest hint of a moan taking flight into your mouth. Your tongue battles hers, you're unwilling to submit this time, because you need to feel like this is on your terms. You can't be her object, she can't be the one using the verb. Her other hand comes around to the back of your neck, fingers clawing into the back of your hair and all your nerves are on fire and then a car goes past, headlights illuminating the dashboard and it's enough to make you realise.

Panting, you pull back slowly, catching her bottom lip in your teeth, a gentle pull as you part ways. She looks at you gloss eyed, the shock of you doing something so unexpected still registering over her face. You don't say anything, just slump back into your seat. You're not sure what you've done, or what you've started, or what this has changed. She did the same with Reed but you don't know if Reed ever gave her what she wanted. You could because it would be the end of it. Maybe she'd give up, maybe she'd find someone else and you could deal with that, it would be hard at first but you'd find a way. The case is nearly over, you'd never have to see each other again if you didn't want to. You could deal with four, five weeks of it.

You meet her eye and she's still not said anything, but the atmosphere between you is still as scalding, as oppressing and it's late and it's forcing you to stop thinking.

You go to open your mouth but her finger comes to rest over your lips, silencing you instantly, exactly like it did the first time in your room. Balancing her entirety on her finger she leans forward and very slowly breathes into your ear.

“Come to bed.”

 

* * *

Under the twilight sky, there's a concert in your room. It's of hands and mouths and teeth and tongues anywhere, everywhere, it's of her body rippling under your movements and it's yours humming under hers. It's better than any dream you've ever had of this moment since the day that your cold hand grasped hers. It's better because you can feel the breath of every moan in your ear, and you can feel her fingers curl, grip and shred tight skin across your back, like she's searching for something to hold onto but can't find it, the anchors nowhere to be seen and so she lets go, head thrown back, your mouth on her neck. At one point, as you anticipated, she rolls you over. Your hands magnet for her sides but she pulls them away, holds them above your head with a murmur of “Only when I say.” Your smile finds hers through the faint light spilling in from the window and she offers you one back, and then it's gone, a look in her eyes of such possessiveness, swirled with raw wanting. She rocks forward, leaves a trail of slow open mouthed kisses from your clavicle to your navel. If you had to you would liken it to her claiming her territory, but you don't want to think about the implications of what that means.

You black out at points, it's much like drowning. You come back up for air when she allows you to, when you're grabbing for her, skin or hair or sheets, something to not get swept back out at sea with. Sometimes she halts her movements altogether, waits for you to sit up and then her lips dance with yours, yet you're never able to touch. She's always pulling back, dipping left, rolling right and all you find is the air she's left in her wake. Sometimes after she's repeated this cycle once or twice, she will let your lips seek out hers, will let them touch, will let sparks connect and jolt, but only very briefly before she's deepening the kiss, searching out something you're not sure you possess.

You're the one to initiate the crescendo, tired of both shying away from the one goal you're working toward together. You sit up and flip her so unexpectedly she grabs your back and blinks up at you with curious eyes. You start from her lips and then you kiss all over her body, any inch you think you've missed, tips of shoulder blades, valleys underneath her collarbones, the crater as her ribs open to toned stomach, the roll of her hipbone, until you're situated alongside her knee. Her legs are just as smooth as you fantasised they'd be that time in the car, and your mouth glides over them the way a blade does ice. You use your tongue at points, your open mouth at others, your teeth at some, biting and kneading tense skin of her thigh until with one last connection at glassy eyes, you connect with her centre, forcing her spine shooting from the mattress and a ferocious shout tumbling from open lips.

You've not been smug many times in your life, but this is one of them.

You bring her to the edge several times, but always pull away. You've established a clever cycle of curls and small circles and flicks and she's thrashing her head now, side to side, nails grabbing your neck, piercing through skin until eventually her hands still, find your hair and hold and she bolts forward and makes a sound so beautiful you'd like to record it and compare it to a choir of angels singing. You're fairly sure she'd win.

 

She doesn't stay the night. You fall asleep some time after the birds have started serenading the drowsy pastel orange morning sky and you wake to golden light awash in your room, a thrumming in your veins, a tingling all over your back and a note on your pillow that just reads _Be bright and early._

 

As it turns out, being bright and early doesn't mean anything. When you arrive at the evidence room nobody's there apart from Eastwood playing a game on his phone. Fifteen minutes later a regular trickle of officers arrive and you're soon relieved to spot Danni through the bustling crowd. She skips over to you and greets you in a full neck wrap around hug, plonking down into the seat next to you, beaming smile on her features.

You don't have much time to appreciate that though, before the one figure you're unsure whether you've been excited or dreading to see wafts through the door. Surprisingly she looks fully relaxed, more colour in her cheeks, hair freshly washed resting on sharp collarbones.

“ _Please._ ” _Her hands are in your hair, legs around your waist, back arching up and-_

You swallow. She catches your eye and offers you a very subtle smile before she directs her full focus into whatever Burns is saying.

You turn away and back to Danni.

“ _So_ ” Danni begins. “What did you do with your free night?”

A shard of ice lodges in your throat. Does she know? How does she know? Did the officers see you? They were only very amateur ones and you think Stella shushed them. You think it looked inconspicuous. You hadn't actually considered beyond just getting her in your room, in your bed.

The conversation around you reaches a natural lull but as it does, you can feel a pair of eyes across the desk watching your every move.

“Watched a film, went to bed.” Not an entire lie. “How was guard?”

It's very subtle and over in a flash, but Danni gives you a look you've never seen before. You go to question it but before you can she's talking again and the moments gone.

“Shite.” Danni bemoans. “Nothing happened. I mean I wasn't expecting anything to happen, you know it's only incase Spector wants to become his name and spook through the walls but I probably would have garnered more entertainment watching paint dry.”

You grin. “Do we have anything together today?”

“Uh, I think so. I'll ask our smiling Super Intendant after this.”

You refrain from very obviously blinking and whipping your head around. The eyes that were burning through layers of skin and muscle from earlier have slunk away and so you drop your voice an octave.

“ _S_ _miling Super Intendant_?”

“Picked her up this morning, beaming smile. It stayed there all the way down the lift, in the car. I am telling you I will put a bet on of Walkers crisps right now: She got some. From somewhere, from someone last night. That is her _got some_ gait.”

Danni pulls back, smug expression rivalling that of Miss Marple after solving a case plastered across her features.

You swallow. Hard.

“She normally looks really depressed? She did with Anderson?” You bluff. Because it's true. With Anderson she was irritable and awkward. You don't want to consider why it's the opposite with you. Maybe because you finally gave in. Maybe it's massaged her ego.

“Not always.” Danni shakes her head. “If it's someone she's selected. See Anderson was just a stress reliever I think. She's a bit like a cat. If she sees the mouse, she chases the mouse, she gets the mouse, happy cat. Takes it home drops it on the doorstep, it's an achievement, she's proud. If the mouse sees her, chases her, tries to deliberately be caught, she kills the mouse but doesn't take it home, it's not an achievement because she didn't see it, or chase it, or try for it.”

You're still trying to process the elongated metaphor when she continues.

“Anderson was an outlet, he's been wanting her for ages but it wasn't mutual, but she _was_ stressed. Olson she wanted: She saw, she came” She giggles “She conquered. Whoever this mystery one was she sniffed out, she saw, she came, she conquered.” She pauses. “One happy cat.”

* * *

It's late when you traipse back to your room, lethargic limbs just about managing to carry you over the threshold. You've only just sprawled yourself across your bed, trying to find the bargaining power with heavy lead legs to support you one last time into the shower when there's a rap of knuckles on your door.

You freeze. Your heartbeat spikes. Surely not her. Not now.

You didn't think she'd want anything with you after last night. You've barely seen her all day, although when you have it's been pleasant, not awkward despite having to silence the echoing sound of her moans in your ear.

_Please._

You heave yourself up off of the comfortable nest you'd just settled into and decide tonight she's not coming in. Pulling the door open, a sigh already on your lips you prepare your brain to recite your fatigue ridden speech when your eyes snap across a figure that is definitely two heads taller than the one you were expecting and definitely resembles the figure of Danielle Ferrington.

You cock an eyebrow, about to open your mouth when she sidles past you not saying anything. Hurriedly you shut the door in her wake and follow after her, watching as she throws herself onto your bed, bouncing your laptop precariously near the edge. Then, she sits up and looks at you with what can only be described as her professional stern gaze.

“So.” She begins. “Would you like to explain why Stella Gibson entered your room at approximately one am last night and left somewhere around four?”

Your stomach turns like it's been trapped in a washing machine and your palms turn cold.

“Who's been-”

“Nobody” She smug smiles, the exact same as earlier. “I asked. Luckily the newbies on guard last night don't know that DSI Gibson's nightly movements are a great gossip point and so discarded it.”

“How on earth did you know?!”

“Her get laid gait. The way when I asked you what you did last night, her gaze somehow found our end of the table, the way you stammered your answer. I realised then, but couldn't say anything with her practically melting you into the seat. Remember I've been working with her long enough to know her.”

You pause. You weren't imagining the look earlier, but still, even in that brief second there was no judgement, no malice. You don't know what to say, or do and so you decide as you plonk next to Danni, all grains of fatigue dispersed that you'll just tell her everything instead.

So you do. You start from the very beginning, the very first night she teased you about needing to find something to knock her out, drinks in the bar, her long elongated looks, the time she dropped a button in front of you in the mortuary (Danni gasps, “ _That's far even for her!_ ”), her texts, the joke about the rumour, how she's always looking for excuses to take you anywhere and everywhere, that night you got really drunk and entered her room and how she looked, what she did, what she said.

By the end of your eulogy Danni is munching steadily on a bar of chocolate and offers you some as you take a deep breath. Friendship not over yet then. You breathe a sigh of relief.

“I'm sorry” You find yourself gasping. “I'd have told you but I didn't want you to think that I was just doing it to, I don't know, prove I could because you haven't and you want to and I didn't know what you'd think and I don't even know what to think-”

Danni raises a hand to your mouth. “Stop.”

You both pause, smiles on your faces and then Danni breaks into laughter.

“You are so _fucking_ lucky! Seriously has she picked everybody but me?! Do you think it's the ginger thing? Do you think that's what it is. Maybe I'll confront her about it. Maybe I'll dye it blonde. Maybe that'll do the trick.”

You smile sadly. “Could do. She's bound to be looking for a new target now.”

“Shit no” Danni says through a mouthful of chocolate “No I didn't mean that. You never know, all the other mice that she's hunted out and taken home have died or gone back to their wives the next day. This is like still a live mouse.”

You blink.

“Not that you're going to do either of those things but you know what I mean!” She pauses. “You haven't got a wife, right?”

You laugh so hard you nearly roll off the bed and she's guffawing alongside you and you think to yourself that if your one night slip up has ruined everything else for you, at least you've met Danni.

“Reed though” You contemplate, straightening up. “Reed hasn't.”

Danni raises an eyebrow.

“Gone anywhere. Gone back to anyone.” You elaborate.

“Reed hasn't even shagged her! According to the guys in the hallway it looked like she completely chickened out. So we can technically class that as going back to their spouses. Or children, in this case.”

“I don't even know what this means.” You find yourself saying.

“It means you've had sex with the super sexy DSI and I don't know, if there's no other achievement we can gain from this case I think you've probably found one. Hey what was she like? Was she really in control?”

“Danni!”

“No seriously! I had to take her dream journal thing down to evidence when Spector put his mitts all over it and they had to scan pages etcetera and I had to stay with it because I am PC, you know make sure nobody else got hold of it, so I got to read some of it and I tell you what” Danni whistles “Some of those sex dreams. It's all about control. She has to be controlled or she has to be in control.” Danni sighs. “It's sad really. It's like she's built herself up into _Stella Gibson_ the woman always in control, always ahead of everyone else, always such a figure of hierarchy that she can't even relax during the most relaxing thing of all. It's like she's modelled herself, her body, into a weapon more powerful than any gun or words.”

You blink and let her words settle in the air as you snap off another block of chocolate. Danni's right, in more ways than one and it is sad and suddenly you realise there's a whole other side to Stella Gibson and you realise you didn't even see it in the most intimate moment of all.

“She was in control” You say, twinge of melancholy running through. “Through all of it. I thought I saw her at her rawest, but I didn't see any of it did I?”

Danni shakes her head, chews faster. “I don't think so. I don't know if anybody will ever see it. Hey maybe you will. Maybe you're still a mouse she wants to chase.”

“I'm not sure what else I can offer her.”

“I'm not sure if even she knows that. All the other mice have never stuck around long enough for her to find out. She must be hunting you out for some reason, there must be something about you.”

“You've known her longest. You said yourself you know her well!”

“That doesn't mean that I know what she's thinking” Danni hums “Although I suppose there are always ways to find out.”

“Like how?”

“Like subtly pressing.”

You shake your head fervently. “No! It'll make me feel like we're back in school and besides, softly softly catchy monkey isn't it?”

“You want to catch the monkey?” Danni props an eyebrow then grins. “Again.”

“I didn't say that.”

Danni smiles.

“I'm just curious! You said yourself the others have never stuck around. It can be our own little project. Investigation: What does Stella Gibson want with me.”

Danni throws her head back and laughs, but then sits up straight, seriousness slinking into her shoulders.

“Listen, I just want you to know that if anything happens, big or small, you can talk to me about it, okay? I shared my chocolate with you even though you shagged the woman I've been wanting to for a good couple of years. _And_ you can tell me all the little juicy details to feed my own fantasies” You give her a look. “Okay sorry sorry! But, it does make us best friends now.”

You catch Danni's grin and beam back.

“Done deal.”

* * *

You're not surprised when you hear Paul Spector has put forward conditions for a deal. He's got the arrogance and psychopathic tendencies to do such a thing. You're just surprised to hear that Stella and the rest of the force have agreed to it.

Danni wakes you from a restful morning slumber, your body just beginning to drift into consciousness by making your phone ring off the hook. When you eventually groggily pick up she informs you that you need to be at the station, pronto. You scramble forward, throwing off duvet covers, pyjamas, all the while asking why and your blood runs cold when she flatly replies what you've been unsure of wanting to hear.

“He's leading us to Rose.”

Your stomach lurches, heart temporarily stops because you realise: Stella. This is all she's wanted, this is it for her, the end is in sight, it's nearly over and it's this discovery, Rose alive, success, Rose dead, failure that will determine how she looks back at this case for the rest of her life.

You'd ask her how she feels about it, only you've not spoken in a fortnight. She's not been near or by, ensconced in interview rooms, monitoring booths and transporting Spector's children around the station and when she has torn herself away from the chaos of her job, she's been missing, many a time off of the hotel grounds, nowhere near her office, nor the hospital. You don't like to consider where she's been because lead drops into your stomach and a familiar clenching fist around it starts a tight grip.

You _were_ just another night to her. Another body to relieve the pressure of her job. In hindsight you should have seen it coming. You should have listened to the rational part of your brain weeks ago.

Operation: What Does Stella Gibson Want With Me was well and truly over before it even left the ground and you're still cursing your naivety in believing it could have been any other way.

 

You scramble to the station, uniform haphazardly thrown on and you arrive in the waiting bay. Danni's there and greets you warmly upon arrival and together both of you stand, watching, waiting, feeling the anxiety bubble up between you as Eastwood arranges the vehicles. It's so meticulous, thirty feet and then twenty, that you feel like the crushing weight of what's about to occur is sending everyone slightly stir crazy.

The silence is broken by Anderson arriving through the doors, harmonized with Stella. Synchronised. Side by side. You swallow that away. Danni sneaks a glance in your direction but you have no time to respond before they're coming to a halt in front of the van.

As she begins arranging the convoy you realise how much more tired she's looking, to the point of looking frail and fragile under the carvings of deep intruding valleys.

“Danni if you can be up front in the squad car behind” Danni nods, but the discontent is written all over her face. Surely _she_ should be wherever Stella is. You don't have time to react because there are now a pair of steely grey eyes snapping to yours for the first time in what feels like years and you bristle under the way that she can barely hold your gaze. “Yourself, Anderson and me will take the main minivan with Spector. Anderson will assist, you will drive, I will be up front.”

She's looking away before you can even nod in response. Anderson is beaming like a boy with a brand new go kart. Half of you hopes Spector attempts to beat him to a pulp.

You all take positions as Spector is led out and into the van. Suddenly it feels so much heavier with him in the back of it. The feeling is similar to you transporting an expensive gadget or toy home for the first time and it's an odd sensation. He's the most precious cargo imaginable and yet he's currently one of the most despicable human beings in the United Kingdom.

Once Anderson is attached and seated, Stella climbs in the front and with one last radio message, the convoy begins to move.

Unsurprisingly nothing is said throughout the journey aside from occasional breaks to ask Spector for further directions. She doesn't even look at you, not the slightest glance and second by second it's making you prickle even more. Reaching the destination actually feels a bit like relief to you, your palms hadn't stopped sweating throughout the drive and you'd been desperately trying to conceal that from both her and Anderson for fear of seeming incompetent.

Everyone leaves their vehicles, aside from uniform who are instructed to stay at the muddy lay by. Stella has incredibly included Danni in the list and you find that strange. You figure it could be because she trusts Danni with monitoring the situation around Spector and she'd be able to take control quick enough if a drama was to occur, but by the look on Danni's face, she's not yet seeing it that way.

Eerily calm, Stella instructs Anderson to stay behind tethered with Spector, leaving them also at the dirt point and flanked heavily by uniform. _There you go Danni_ you think. _Your time to shine._ Stella further instructs a car with more uniform in it to follow her, the ambulance to follow that, the helicopter to follow both vehicles and her overhead and you, you to come with her.

You blink. The world spins out into a blur of noise and colour and you feel off balance because surely you should be with uniform somewhere. At the top of the track, here in the lay by, in the vehicle following her, with Danni, anywhere but accompanying _her._

You watch Danni throw you a nervous smile but you can't return it, instead you're hurrying to keep up with Stella who has already started pacing off, three steps ahead. You make the quick decision that as you're uniformed and armed, you'll go in front incase of any ambush and so lightly you jog to catch up until you've overtaken her and are two steps ahead. You regularly stop to scan clearings, the trees, markings in the bark and neither of you say anything to one another, the only sound between you the crunching of twigs and the helicopter hovering overhead.

“I've been busy.”

The surprising sound of her voice pulls you out of whatever reverie you'd been in and you have to physically go back and replay the moment in order for the distorted noises to make sense.

_I've been busy._

“I've noticed.”

Another silence washes over you. The leaves rustle more fervently and the sound of the helicopter intensifies.

“I suppose you think I've fucked you over. Both in the metaphorical sense relating to the physical.”

You shake your head. Bite your lip. Say nothing.

“I hope you have the sense to be aware that that is not the case.”

Stiffly, you nod. “I think we should both be ploughing our attention into something more important at the moment ma'am.”

“You don't have to put up the professional front to guard your feelings. I understand that you're hurt. I should have called. Or texted. I'm not very good with communication.”

“Yet you were good enough with it before.” You snap unwillingly.

“That was before things changed. A relationship always changes once a physical act has derived between the pair.”

You wheel round, fury in your gaze. “Nothing's changed, Stella! You're still the same person. You've nearly completed a murder case, you'll be back to London before you know it, I'll stay here with Tom, who if we're getting personal you've also fucked over,  _both in the metaphorical sense relating to the physical_ and who knows, maybe when you' ve found your next  stress relief me and him can huddle together on cold nights and compare and share our memories of you.”

You spit it out, venom seeping into every syllable. But you don't mean any of it. The forest hums with the sound of unrest and you imagine the trees to be gossiping buxom women, turning away from the scene, whispering behind their fingers.

She doesn't say anything else. You can't find the words to make your damage right and so you traipse on in silence and it makes you sick when you view the battered orange car abandoned in the clearing as reprieve.

She signals in instantly, leading the uniformed officers and ambulance to the vehicle and you look around it, try your best to desperately get into the boot in silence but you can't manage it, it takes another officer to assist you in prising it open and there she is, Rose, curled in the foetal position, cut and battered and bloodied and bruised but not breathing, until finally, her lungs react to the rush of fresh oxygen and some part of her is there, chest heaving, back in the world, back in some form of distorted consciousness and then they're lifting her, slowly, gently, reassuring her, onto the stretcher, easing out stiff limbs and it's here you desperately want to put your arm around a watery eyed Stella, who 's demanding they don't lose her, but it's here you desperately can't.

You're on the way back, trudging through the dirt path, following the ambulance when there's a shout over the radio. An intruder, an unknown male with equipment right next to the lay by. It's all panic, you and Stella break into a sprint, there are uniform hurrying Spector and Anderson away and then you spy him in the near distance on your right. He's only a photographer but he shouldn't be here, nobody should even know the police are here and that's a whole new investigation in itself, so  you throw a last glance  over your shoulder  at  Stella .  Your eyes meet and hold and the chaos around you temporarily slows and you think she's about to say something, it's in her eyes,  _the windows to our soul_ but instead she hesitantly nods, breaks your locked gaze  and so  you  peel off and  break out into a full blown run, Danni's words echoing in your ears.

“Put whatever you are holding down, now, or I will be forced to shoot. I repeat, put whatever you are holding down.”

You dismiss it, heartbeat pounding in your ears, think she's a great bluffer, can't imagine her shooting anyone and you're nearly on him, fingertips could reach him, you just need a couple of yards more but there's a silence in the forest now, everything has stopped moving and rustling and breaking and turning and there's a pain, a throbbing twinge in your shoulder, or your neck, you can't be sure, it's some part of your left upper side and you think  _fuck no_ not a sprain, not a pull, not a dislocation, not now, not in front of everyone, not in front of  _her._ But it's intensifying, feels as if your arm is  breaking free and the photographers gone, way out of your peripheral vision that is  slowly but surely  starting to darken at the sides and you straighten up, any attempt to find normality but there's pain and there's sleep and they're battling each other and you're battling both of them and there's screaming, so much screaming, it's like someone's  taken the world off  mute and it's filling the forest, bouncing off the trees, dripping off of the leaves, the branches, sopping into damp moss.

“ _NO!_ ”

 

* * *

You don't think you've ever been in this much pain before. This even triumphs forty eight hour drinking sessions with Danni and completely engulfs the time you fell off of your bike headfirst, ending up embedding yourself into a brick wall.

At first you think you could be having a heart attack, perhaps all the emotional, mental and physical stress on top of nights in fancy cocktail bars has got too much for your poor arteries and they've given in, but unusually slowly you begin to realise although there's pain in your left arm, it's not on your chest and it's not even all the way down the arm. It's just from your shoulder, a huge fireball of throbbing, sharp stabbing pains, all the way to your elbow.

It's the worst thing you've ever experienced, it's itchy, it's uncomfortable and you want to screw your eyes, your face, your body up away from it but you seemingly can't go anywhere, your entire being replaced by ten tonne bricks that are a slog to move.

Gradually you crack open an eye and a wall full of white swims in front of groggy, unfocused vision. You shouldn't be anywhere white. Gently you open it a little bit further, but it's still white, the room not changing colour, until you reach a patch of pale blue. In response to your confusion you can feel your right eye trying to lend a hand to your left, to try and report some form of coherent imagery to your brain but now there's another blue blur and it's coming a little closer and it's stopped right in front of you and then there's a voice, floating down through your ears.

“Can you fetch him for me please” You lose a few words, everything sounds a bit scratchy “We've got lift off.”

You don't know what that means and you can't see anything and you're in so much agony that you're now starting to get frustrated. But then there's another face in your face and you screw your eyebrows up in concentration as the image gradually starts to focus.

A mans face, with mottled grey handlebars and smudged green eyes. He's got glasses on and he's looking at you with a face full of intrigue but you're not looking at him anymore, you're looking at his moustache which has slowly but surely turned ginger and is now slithering up his face, mapping the whole of it, transforming into straightened, well manicured shoulder length ginger hair and the eyes are a familiar warm hazelnut and there's a smile on pink puffed lips and you think _Danni_ , finally, someone familiar but she's holding a gun. She's holding a gun and it's right at you so you turn, faced with a speckled picture perfect woodland and you remember you're supposed to be doing something and you realise with a shout that it's chasing the mystery photographer and so you go and you're nearly on him, your chest is heaving, your heart rate is out of control but your fingers have reached forward and you're so close you can hear the leather groaning with every move he makes. Your fingers touch cold shoulder pad and then a noise, a bang, an explosion. A car backfiring? No, something more sinister, a bullet being ripped from the womb of it's holster and you pay it no attention, but all of a sudden you can hear the golden casket singing its funeral march, it's whistling and it's gained ground on the pair of you really quickly and then there's a gentle thud and your shoulder twinges but the whistling is in your ears and it's replaced by the sound of barely there drilling, like a screwdriver into wall. Skin, you realise, by the second is being torn apart, pinging like stitches breaking out of a seam, and bone is being gnawed and gnarled and you halt yourself in your tracks. The photographer is in front of you, having thrown himself to the floor in panic, eyes wide looking up at you, fear flowing through them but you're holding yourself upright with all the strength that you have and your right hand is now flailing to your left shoulder. You pull it away and it's warm and matted and you temporarily contemplate, _leaves, mud_? No. You inspect further and it's red, it's red marbled with black and you think, _that's funny, I haven't been near anything red_ and then from somewhere there's a guttural scream, bouncing off of the branches, reflecting off of the leaves.

“ _NO!_ ”

And it's gone straight to your knees and it's muted all the noise in the forest again, the birds have stopped singing, the squirrels have stopped foraging, the blue lights have stopped flashing and there's footsteps, pounding the forest floor coming forever closer but you have no time for that, you're knackered, everything has drained from you and you allow your knees, your spine to give way. Warm kneecaps hit damp, cushioned floor and you decide you can rest here amongst natures own mattress of leaves, of twigs, of moss and your spine rolls forward and the sensation of cold damp crawling over your cheek is long forgotten because sleep is there, on the outskirts of your horizon beckoning a bony finger, drawing you closer and closer to a pool of velvet darkness and just as you give in, just as you put one foot in the swirling water there's a voice in your ear and it's so soothing, it's so hypnotic that everything in you relaxes and everything in you stops protesting and goes under.

_Don't you dare think you're going anywhere._

 

The next time you come round it's less painful than before, your shoulder gently throbbing rather than screaming in complaint and you decide that that was a bloody quick recovery and then, as your eyelid cracks open again, you decide you're a bloody idiot because of course the only logical solution is drugs.

Your body doesn't feel like you're carrying the weight of a forty tonne truck anymore and so you send a little prayer to the morphine gods that you have at least some of yourself back. Gingerly you crack your neck to your left and with a wash of strength open both your eyes to their full capacity. Everything swims again, but only momentarily and then you're staring down at your arm. The arm that you can't move, no matter how many messages you relay to your brain and inwardly you panic, what if that means it's not actually there, what if that means it's gone, but then through the nest of blankets and bandages and what you assume is a cast, you can see the tips of your fingers and so you assume that something is there and for now, that's enough.

You roll your head back into its central position on the pillow and then attempt to move your other arm, more as a test than anything, when you find you can't. You can't because as you wiggle your hand, the weight of another hand is resting in yours, padded fingertips nestled into your palm, wrapped around the tips of your fingers. You frown and rock your head to the right and there she is, the achingly beautiful familiar sight of blonde hair matted to sharp cheekbones, now suddenly alert, astute and looking at you through fast shuttering eyes, blinking away a remnant of what must have been sleep.

For a minute you just look at each other and you're waiting for her to pull her hand away but she doesn't, she just relaxes her stance so that her arm won't die in it's position before she speaks, soft and slow and you think that if you could just bottle her voice up and take that instead of morphine, you're sure it would speed your healing process up by triple.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.”

You move your head left, then right, then left, then right, slowly and by only an inch to symbolise what you hope looks something like shaking your head.

“Danni” You croak, but she grabs the water by the side of your bed and holds the straw up to your lips. You drink bashfully, all the while praying that your cheeks haven't let you down and turned shades of pink. She places the drink back down when you symbolise you've had enough and then fixes you with a smile.

“Try again.”

“Is Danni okay?”

Then her eyes are wide, doe like and you realise that she must have thought you thought in your drug fuelled state that she was Danni. That you didn't recognise her. As if that's possible.

“You remember...” She starts, slowly, taken aback.

You raise your head up an inch then back down and repeat.

“Yeah” Then, with another burst of energy you contort stiff facial muscles into a hint of a smile. “I was in the way.”

A laugh tumbles out of her lips that looks like it takes even her by surprise.

“Or Danni is an awful shot.” She smiles back. “She's fine. She's outside. She's not stopped crying for eighteen hours.”

You blink and gently force your brows to furrow.

“Eighteen hours?”

“You took quite the battering.”

You blink again. No wonder you feel so drained. But there's another question swirling on top of the multitude now gathering in your brain.

“My shoulder...” You start, not wanting to continue. You know she knows, she's Stella Gibson, she knows absolutely everything about anyone at any time. That and her face has just given her away.

“You should speak to the doctor.” She trails slowly, but there's a look of such sadness on her face that your stomach is turning in on itself and more dread has settled in the bottom of it.

“I passed out.” You explain. _Minor details_.

She fixes you with a look of such empathy (or sympathy, you can't quite decide) and sadness that you feel yourself twitch under it.

“The bullet has shredded most of your crucial nerves...” She pauses, lets it sink in. “And had embedded itself halfway in the bone itself. You were rushed to surgery, they got it out... But you've got to learn to reuse your arm.”

Everything stops. The world stops turning, the nurses stop rushing, she stops talking. You feel like you're on a violently swaying boat. You swallow. Hard.

“Reuse my arm?” You choke out.

“Yes. You'll need regular therapy. There's a lot that needs to heal.”

You throw your head back into the centre of the pillow, watery eyes now unable to look at her, look at anything. You blink them away furiously because you know what that means.

“How long?”

You hear her sigh, but her fingertips dig into your skin a little tighter.

“Six months.”

Six months. Six months of you not being a PC. Of being unable to do anything with your career. If you do manage to make a full recovery you'll have to be fitness assessed, you'll have to do rigorous training because you'll have been out so long, you'll have to rebuild yourself back to the stage that you're at now. It's not just your arm in shreds, it's now your whole entire life.

“What am I going to do.” You bemoan, not aiming it at anyone in particular, just aiming it at the ceiling, or in your head, beyond the ceiling into the sky, past any clouds, hoping that it's ringing in some religious figures ears.

“I'm going to look into protocol and see what you can do.” She says softly. “Please don't be disheartened, this doesn't mean that anything is finished for you.”

_But it does_ you think, agonisingly to yourself.  _It does._

You force yourself to look at her, her face full of warmth and compassion and you decide that you'll pick another question to ask because you can't talk about you any longer.

“What have I missed?” You aim for.

She seems a little surprised at your change in topic but offers a smile of understanding.

“Spector has been found guilty on nine offences... Benedetto guilty on three... Sally Ann has been released and Rose is alive.”  


“Shit!” You exclaim.  _Rose is alive_ .  Despite how she looked, the state she was in. She's alive.  _Success._ “Where is she, is she okay?”  


She sighs, eyes downcast. “She's in her own private room a few corridors away, being monitored by the minute. Critical but stable. That's all we can ask for  currently .”

With the remaining strength in your right hand you grip hers a little tighter.

“She's alive” You say “That's the main thing.”

She nods, a little apprehensively and you fix her with a look that you hope relays your admiration, your respect.

“You've done it.” You say, slowly, newfound smile creeping over your lips. “It's over.”

She meets your eye and smiles.

“Not quite yet. But we're getting there.”

You grip her hand again, one more time and then grin. You said things to her in the forest and they're sketchy, you can't remember them all but you know you need to apologise.

“The things I said...” You start, but she's shaking her head.

“You shouldn't ever apologise for saying what you feel.”

“I didn't-”

“You did. To a degree. Perhaps not maliciously, but you did. And perhaps they were things I needed to hear. So please. It's forgotten.”

_Like it was when I came into your room?_ You want to ask, but you can't.  You nod your head. 

“You should be with Rose. I'm fine and besides, I want to shout at Danni.”

She smiles, but it's not genuine, it's covering something that you can't find. “Don't be too hard on her. I wasn't exaggerating when I said that she hasn't stopped crying. I've had to change twice.”

Your laugh comes out more like dry choking in an upbeat style.

“There will be an investigation.” She says slowly, suddenly solemn.

“An investigation?”

“Into the shooting. The IPCC will want to question you at some point. As the superior officer I have defended Danni on account of there being no malicious intent. I'm sure you'll agree.”

Eagerly you nod your head as fast as you can manage.

“There was nothing. I really was in the way. I didn't actually think she'd do it.”

“No.” She sighs. “Neither did I. But then we all do things we regret under intense pressure.” 

She smiles at you, sad and subtle and you're not sure what that means.

“Thank you.” You say, sadly, reflecting everything, but mainly you think, somewhere deep inside you, your missed chances. “For everything. By the time I'm out of here who knows where you'll be.”

There's a pause, a fire appears behind her eyes but she's blinking it away and standing, withdrawing her hand so abruptly you mourn the loss of warmth.

“I won't go without saying goodbye.”

Your eyebrows furrow but she doesn't look at you  and she doesn't even look back as she strides out the door.

* * *

She keeps her promise in that she doesn't  go without  say ing goodbye, because she doesn't  _actually_ seem to go. After the first forty eight hours your condition is deemed stable enough, allowing you to leave the ICU and be placed in your own private room.

It's better,  far  more comfortable, with a bed you can control with buttons and a  wall mounted  TV and a sofa bed in the far corner. It's there because you require police protection outside the room, much like Rose, who is now conscious and talking a few doors away from you.

But Stella pops in all the time. Mostly it's late in the evening but a few times it's the morning, mid afternoon. She pops in with updates, asks for advice and several times has brought you coffee and asked you to help her complete her crossword. It's the surrealist thing having Stella Gibson of all people sat at the end of your bed, legs crossed in under herself, rolling her eyes,  shaking her head and tutting at you for getting the answers wrong. It's even more surreal when sometimes she throws her head back in genuine, chest heaving laughter. 

You want to flatter yourself by believing that maybe your spiteful words in the forest had some kind of effect, but you haven't got that big of an ego.

Danni is also a constant compatriot, very rarely leaving your room, taking full advantage of the sofa bed. She regularly offers to guard but does no such thing, instead splaying herself out over your bed or when it's lights out, the sofa bed, gossiping with you into the late hours. You know that she's still trying to appease what she did, she buys you chocolate and crisps and drinks and at one point even sneaks in gin. You've told her time and again that she has nothing to feel guilty for but you know by the amount of times she wakes up sweating, cold and clammy in the night that she's still reliving it and you know that even though Stella has got her the best possible counsellor, she will for a while.

 

It's a horrendously wet and stormy Tuesday Belfast night when you next see  your somewhat  _changed_ DSI. You're not expecting to see anyone and silently you'd been dreading your first night alone. Danni has a briefing early and so is forced to stay at the hotel for convenience although she's text you about seventy times in two hours so you're not properly beginning to  feel her absence yet. You don't expect visitors thanks to atrocious weather and so you lay back and let your eyes drift close d . You're halfway to unconsciousness when you hear the door gently push open and at first you don't react, deciding it could be a nurse, or at best, your imagination. 

But curiosity gets the better of you and so you  eventually  crack an eye open. By the faint streetlight along from your window you can make out  a very familiar  shadow slipping out of her coat, shaking out her hair and then you realise, begin to make  up  the sofa bed. She's never stayed before. Every time the hours have cr awled later and later around the clock you've expected her to, but there's always been an excuse, a  _reason_ she can't. 

“Stella?” You softly question, not wanting to spook her and snap her into the reality of what she's doing, while you're sure she thinks you're asleep.

You're surprised when she continues her action, voice drifting over her shoulder.

“Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

She stops mid fold and turns around. You reach for the nearby light and a warm golden glow fills the room, but reveals what she was trying to hide: her face. Her eyes are puffy, her stance drooped and she languidly makes her way to your bed, where she perches on the end of it.

“It's over.” She says, but it's downtrodden.

“What is?” You question, confused. “Is it Rose?”

She shakes her head. “Rose is fine. Rose has managed to provide enough evidence to nail him.” She pauses. “I'm going back to London.”

You let the words settle into the atmosphere and you realise what that means as your stomach turns over. This is goodbye.

“I thought you'd have been happier...”  


“It feel s obscure to leave.”

“Then don't.”

She blinks at you.

“Stay. I'm sure Burns can find a job for you somewhere, you're now an infamous well respected Detective Super Intendant. You've taken down the Belfast strangler! I'm not sure they're all going to be that exciting but it is a major city so you never know.”

In spite of herself you see her smile.

“Is that you covering your tracks?”  


You  grin,  shak ing your head.

“I'm just saying, you don't have to go if you don't want to. You've got a team here. Talk to Burns.”

“And if the answer is no?” She sighs.

You smirk. “Then make your own unit.”

Her small laugh is drowned by a clap of thunder ricocheting outside. For a while both of you watch the impending storm throw itself against the weakly strengthened window, and it must be the raging confidence of the atmosphere that floats into the room, that embeds into your nerves because you find yourself saying “Come here.”

You shift over, ever so slightly and very cautiously as she props an eyebrow. She doesn't get where you're going with it until you clear her a space. She flicks from the empty space, the pillow, back up to your face and over again and then very, very delicately, like she's trying to weigh up whether it's a good decision, she moves forward, turning so she's laying on her back. You decide an arm around her is a bit far so you resist the urge, both of you just laying stiffly side by side staring up at the metallic tiles on the wall.

Eventually she extends a hand toward the light switch, blanketing the room into darkness and you feel her turn so she's laying on her side, looking at you. A few minutes pass and you feel her head, slowly but surely nestle into your neck and so you decide, with the last remaining remnants of energy and confidence to extend your arm around her, leaving your hand splayed loosely on her back.

Through the murky, storm tinted silence you hear her soft “Goodnight” echo through the walls, just like the very first time when you left her room on an identically miserable night and in the midst of the memory and the current moment, straight out of the pages of a Jane Austen saga, you smile.

“Goodnight.”

* * *

It's a while before you see her again. When you'd woken the next morning she was long gone, all that remained as proof she'd even been there was a scribbled note of _Thank you_ left on your pillow.

You didn't know if that meant she'd gone back to London because Danni, not for want of trying had been unable to find out anything either and together the both of you had sat weighing up the likelihood that she had, the scenarios that Burns could have presented to her, until you were both going round in circles far too late into one night.

Now you're sat, having had Danni cut up your breakfast for you, which even after weeks of doing it is still as mortifying as the first time, with a certain anticipation burning in your gut.

Danni had received a phone call the night before, from no other than the absent Stella, explaining that both of you needed to be smartly dressed in uniform the next morning and she'd be picking you up before eleven.

There's a nervous energy in the room and it's making every bite of your scrambled egg on toast sit awkwardly in your stomach and you find you're swallowing more tea than usual. Danni is now arranging her tie, telling you that in a minute she'll sort you out _(“Don't panic, by the time I'm finished she'll want to ravish you and be full of regret for disappearing_ ”) and you can't find the words to ask her what she thinks this is about.

That and the fact you're still a bit peeved. You haven't seen Stella for a week. She's been nowhere near, yet you know she's been at the hospital because she's visited Rose. Twice. That's made a heavy fist of unrest sit in your gut and you don't know whether that night you fell asleep together has done more damage than the night you slept together and the irony of that statement is not lost on you. You think you spoke too soon when you thought your words could be having some effect, that a leopard could be changing it spots, that this time, she'd let you in instead of shut you out, but it feels exactly like the last time when she bedded you and then ignored you and it's made you despondent and irritable. Danni deserves a medal for still camping out in your room night after elongated night.

You push your breakfast to the side. You feel nauseous and anxious and panicky and itchy and you hate it.

Seconds later Danni is sitting you up, trying desperately to put your injured arm through the material of the shirt. Your good arm can only do so much to help and so with a groan of frustration – the anxiety beginning to weigh on her too – she calls for the nurse.

There's nothing more embarrassing than having two people try and dress you and you feel prickly and uncomfortable and you're bristling under the weight of the unknown and it's now more than ever that you're mourning the temporary loss of one of your limbs.

Danni takes a backseat from the rest of it, the nurse doing your tie and straightening out your jacket, arranging your sling and she pulls back with a beaming smile.

“Proper professional!”

You grin and thank her as she saunters off and Danni looks at you with a smile packed full of regret and sadness.

“Don't.” You warn.

She looks at you with a grimace. “I wish I could give you my arm.”

You smile. “You already are. You cut up my food and try and dress me and we all know you only got that nurse in here because you think she's fit.”

She laughs, a proper Danni cackle and you can't help but join in and for the first time since you woke up you're feeling relaxed.

Until the door brushes open. Then your relaxation swings from the ceiling, drops onto mildly cushioned floor and shatters into a thousand pieces.

You both turn around at the same time and sure enough, glimmering in the halo of lights behind her head there she is, dressed in full uniform, but there's guilt all over her face. You know that she knows you'll have been informed she's been here. Without coming in. Not even for a crossword, a chat, a check up.

Cautiously she meets your eye, Danni flicking between the pair of you at the speed of sound but you only hold her gaze for a second before you look away. If this is her coming in to tell you it's goodbye, and she's stayed away to try and give you some space, to get you both used to the big break, you don't want to hear it. You'd rather she just bolted last week. You'd rather she never came back looking so shimmeringly beautiful, because it's like someone pouring a litre of salt into a very open wound.

“Ma'am.” Danni addresses to break the suffocating tension.

She looks between you both. “If you're ready, there's a car downstairs.”

You both nod and Danni gestures for you to go first. You trail behind Stella slowly but Danni is now caught up to speed and in time with your pace. She offers you a reassuring glance: _I'm right here._

Stella holds the door open for you as you reach the car, throwing Danni the keys and informing her that she's driving. You have to bite back a smile because Danni genuinely looks like she might ram them somewhere forbidden.

As you precariously slide in she shuts the door, and half of you is expecting her to get in the front, but half of you knows the likelihood of that is slim and so you're not surprised when she saunters in the other side.

“Buckle up!” Danni beams, greeting your eyes in the rearview.

You go to reach for the seatbelt but Stella halts you, instead choosing to lean over you and do it herself.

“I can put a seatbelt on.” You say, but it's sharp, much sharper than you'd intended and she pauses awkwardly, hovering right in front of your face. With a nod she retreats and you see Danni scrunch her face up in the front.

You manage the seatbelt after three times of trying and nobody's said anything as you draw up to the impending figure of the station. There's now an atmosphere so thick resting between the three of you it would need several knives to make a mark in it.

The minute the car has stopped moving Danni is up out the front and opening your door. You smile at her, a smile of gratitude and mostly relief as you delicately stand.

The cold air in your face is new. As is the traffic rushing past, the hustle and bustle of officers in and out the station doors, members of the public looking anxious, flashing blue lights, screaming sirens and for a minute it's all too much. The last time you were outside you had two working shoulders, now you've only got one and the occasional ricocheting noise of a bullet dancing through your head. You lay a hand on the car and you feel Danni lay her hand on your back.

“Are you okay?”

Stella pauses from the opposite side of the vehicle, eyes fixated on you full of concern.

“It's my first time outside since...” _You shot me? I had two shoulders?_ The words die in your throat. You can't say that, that's not fair. Danni didn't deliberately shoot you, it was an accident. A trembling hand led to the misguiding of a bullet. It could have hit anyone or anything, you, the photographer, another officer, a tree, a leaf, a squirrel. It wasn't intentional.

She's looking at you with wet eyes, verging on the first fragile drops of tears and so you meet her eyes and you smile, warm and reassuring. “It's a bit different from static yellow walls, that's all.”

Danni nods, bottom lip wavering under her teeth and you push yourself off the car, grasping the hand that is around your back, knotting your fingers through it. “Let's go.”

Danni nods at Stella who leads the way, all the time keeping her vision straightforward. She takes you through the familiar tunnels of the station, into the briefing room and when the door is pushed open there's an eruption of noise.

Cheers come from every corner of the room, from every direction and for a moment it's a swamp of noise, your vision temporarily swimming. There's clapping and smiling and it's all for you and as it all dies down Eastwood simply says “Sorry Danni's such a crap shot. We're going to give her training.”

Everyone laughs, apart from Danni who throws him the most glaring evils you've ever seen.

“As if I haven't heard that a thousand times now.”

The good humour in the room is shattered by the arrival of Burns, looking deadly serious. Danni steers you to the opposite side of the table and you realise Stella subtly halts until she can calculate which seat you're going to be occupying. And then she picks the one opposite yours. Naturally.

You take a glance around, anything to ignore the eyes that have settled on you and you realise there's no Anderson. You nudge Danni.

“Where's Tom?”

Danni does a quick sweep and checks her watch, turns her lip up and shrugs. “No idea. Maybe he's gone back to wherever he came from.”

“That's all well and good, but that means I should be with him, _w_ _herever he came from._ Which was Dublin, thanks. We're not sewer rats!”

Danni catches your eye and realises your point. “Don't panic. Maybe Burns has realised you're better than him and secretly they've played poker over who gets to have you. And I'd continue this joke” She says, dropping her voice “And I'd add in another character if your skull didn't have two eye shaped holes in it.”

You laugh, unable to help yourself and you have to look down at the desk as you watch Stella's eyes furrow in curiosity, only meeting Danni's who simply beams a very friendly smile back.

Burns clears his throat at the head of the table and you're so glad of the reprieve, snapping your face back into seriousness and enjoying the feeling of being able to breathe without everything feeling weighty under a heavy gaze.

“Operation Musicman is over.” He starts, booming voice echoing around the now silent room. “But it's taught us some incredible things about the people we have in this room, in this station, in this department.” He pauses. Everyone's exchanging smiles. Danni's hand finds yours under the table and squeezes. “And so it pains me to tell you all that as a commission we've decided the team needs to have a shake up.”

Gasps ring around the table.

“One member has had to retire from his duty.” He pauses again. The tension is starting to eat at your stomach. “However the rest of you are staying together. In a brand new, independent, high force Unit.”

Burns looks up and smiles. 

For a moment there's eerie silence, the words slowly sinking in to each and every officer and then there are raucous cheers and claps and pats on backs and Danni is beaming at you like she's just found a new puppy.

Burns waits for the noise to die down before he continues. “At the moment, it's a Unit in probation. We have to see how it goes. However... Every operation needs a head of the table.” He pauses, his eyes finding Stella's. “And so it fills me with great pride to announce that of course, your head of operation, your superior, your Detective Super Intendant will remain as Stella Gibson.”

Someone groans, leading everyone to laugh, albeit nervously but she only smirks.

And then his eyes turn to you and you wilt. “We have a new member of the team staying with us. You're out of action currently” He side eyes Danni who looks straight at the floor. “But Stella has referred me your papers and there is room for both you and PC Ferrington to not only keep your roles, but one day progress to taking your Sergeants exams.”

You stop breathing. She's realised your goal and she's giving you a chance to do it. She's keeping you on her team, even though you won't be fully back in action until the Unit's concrete future will be officially decided and she's... Letting you do your Sergeants exam. One day. You look at her for the first time and gratefully you smile. She returns it.

Danni hugs you very gently and everyone around the room claps. You smile, cheeks heating up.

“Danielle, the investigation referring to the shooting has been dropped. Unsubstantial evidence to press on charges of deliberate intent.” He pauses and smiles. “It's up to Stella whether or not you take further accuracy courses.”

Everyone laughs and there are copious shouts of “Yes, please!”. Stella only grins and raises her eyebrows in Danni's direction with a slow nod.

“Great” Danni deadpans, shaking her head. “Just great.”

The room settles back down and Burns collects his papers. “For now, enjoy the party. I'll be back at some point with your new mission.”

Everyone bids him goodbye and Stella stands to accompany him out. There's more handshakes and hugs as everyone moves to the buffet table at the back but you're still taking it all in. As Danni heads off for a drink, ( _“Bloody hell I'm going to find the bottle”_ ) you slip outside.

Stella's there, Burns having just gone through the double doors and when she sees you she wheels around. You pause, leant up against the wall outside and she prowls toward you as if she's been expecting this. She stops straight in front of you, curiosity already oozing into her face.

“I suppose this time you may have genuinely been busy.”

She stares at you, eyes alight with regret and goes to reply but you stop her.

“I won't work with you unless you show me _you_.” You pause. “Who you actually are. The real Stella Gibson. Not the controlled facade.”

She flinches, but as quickly as she does it's gone. Her eyes drop to your lips and a finger comes up to rest gently under your chin. She trails your jaw, makes you look left, right, centre and then she very gently brings it away.

“I thought you were going to ask me where Tom was.”

You blink.

“Where is Tom?”

“The photographer at the crime scene was premeditated. It seemed he was out for a little bit of exposure. He was found guilty at an independent hearing. For now, he's back in Dublin.” She sighs. “Considering his ability, it's a shame.”

You bristle and then her face snakes into a grin.

“Jealousy” She breathes, thumb and forefinger running alongside opposite sides of your jaw. “Not a good look.”

She pauses, brings her finger away again and meets your firm gaze.

“I'm not sure how to fulfil your wish. But I will try, if you have the same patience with me as you do your arm.”

“Of course. It's the least I can do when you're giving me a pathway to a dream.”

She smiles, a slow, curling smile and then familiar soft lips are making contact with yours. It's brief, but it's firm and it's gentle and when she pulls back she's smirking.

“Then I hope you concentrate on your recovery. You might need that arm where we're going.”

 

\\\\\

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well done, you made it!  
> I'm a bit sad it's over.  
> The way I've left this gives plenty of scope for a few one shots and the potential to serialise... So, holla at your gurl in the comments, let me know if that's a good/awful idea or you've got anything you wanna see.
> 
> I've also got a couple of AU ideas. I'm not sure if the fandom is ready for those yet so please, talk to me, let me know! Let's figure it out together. I love you all. Thank you.


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